


Unfocused

by hellabel



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Eventual Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Memory, POV First Person, Post 2011 Anime, Temporary Character Death, Trans Kurapika, Trans Male Character, Unreliable Narrator, taking liberties with nen, the author is in love with kurapika and everyone can tell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24960388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabel/pseuds/hellabel
Summary: "I hope you understood, fuck, I hoped you understood just how much how these little talks meant to me, still mean to me, how I can’t stop thinking about them, repeating the words you said, over and over until I can no longer remember properly what was real and what is now a fantasy. Your hand on my ankle. The stroke of your thumb against my skin. Over and over. Everything fades away. I wish it would be like this, forever. "
Relationships: Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	1. Bedroom

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted something specific so I'm making it. This is inspired by ivyblossom's 'The Quiet Man'- one of my favourite fics of all time. I usually don't like first person, but I think it's necessary here. 
> 
> Set at an ambiguous time after the 2011 anime. I haven't read the manga, but I know a bit about it. So this ignores what happens after the anime finishes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remnants of a dream. I wish I could sink back into that state of semi-consciousness. I would think about you in my hometown. I would imagine us lying side-by-side on the sand. The world inside my head is so much more comforting than the reality.

At 4 am the radio switches on with a dull click. 

The dull buzz of the newsreader’s voice fills the room, mixing with the sound of traffic which drift up from the street below. I blink hazily, eyes unfocused, the cracked ceiling of the bedroom blurring and shifting. Breathe. In. Out. The faint smell of cigarette smoke. Outside, the neighbour is having a cigarette on his balcony. My awareness sharpens, the sounds and smells of the city coming together with clarity as I pull myself from the waking dream. 

Here, nothing ever sleeps. The city is filled from the early morning to the last hour of night, a cycle which never ends and never begins, spinning eternally. 

This city reminds me of you, distantly and somewhat strangely, like nearly everything does. You never slept, not during those long years after the exam. I can still remember the softness of your expression as you sat against the base of a tree on that island, your breaths coming evenly, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks. If only I had known back then that it would be a long time before I would see you that restful. 

You never slept, not after you began wearing those fitted black suits and let your hair grow long. That version of you, the one with grey beneath your eyes and a hollowness to your features, clashes with the one I met on that boat, the one which stood before me in the swirling rain, eyes burning, and teeth gritted. 

In the disorientation of my semi-consciousness, these two visions swim across my vision, polluting the still-lingering dream and leaving me confused, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the city. 

I wonder what you would say if you knew how little I sleep these days. 

The radio switches on. 

What are they saying on the news today? Someone has been shot, something been stolen, a natural disaster somewhere. I listen for any mention of scarlet eyes or the Phantom Troupe. I will admit that sometimes I let myself listen for your name as well, though it is becoming less frequent as time moves on. I’m not sure what I expect to hear, but I do it all the same. The aftershock of denial. Whoever said there were five stages of grief were horribly incorrect. There are no stages. The damn thing overlaps. 

I blink, vision hazy. What was I thinking about, before the radio switched on? It’s so hard to remember, once I am fully awake. The memories evaporate quickly like water pooled in in the palms of my hand, leaving me empty as I try to recall the phantom weight which has suddenly disappeared. 

My eyelids feel heavy and gummy, although I haven’t slept. There’s a weight on my chest, pushing me into the mattress. The world outside wanders through the open windows, and yet it feels so far away, as if I were floating in a fish tank, submerged underwater, alone and silent. 

The city never sleeps, not like back in my hometown. You would have liked it there, I just know it, but that could just be my wishful thinking. I want you to have liked it. The idea is comforting. The image of you next to the sea, in my childhood home, walking down the street as I point out the landmarks, the spots of my childhood. It wouldn’t have been anything to look at. The signs of poverty are everywhere. But it was my home, and I know you would have liked it there, I just know it. You next to the sea. The smell of salt. The morning light shining off your hair. Here, the darkness is polluted by drunken laughter, cars beeping, the smell of pollution. Back at home, the nights were filled with the sound of cicadas, the distant rolls of the waves, the quiet only disturbed by the occasional distant sound of cats fighting in an alley. I would have taken you down to the ocean after dark, laid down next to you in the sand. I would have let you teach me the names of the stars. 

Should it concern me, how much time I spend imaging you in places you never visited? 

The room is still dark, still too early for the sunrise. I look at the cracks in the ceiling, at my desk covered in papers and pens. There’s a stain, in the corner, caused by a leak in the roof. I know you didn't approve of the state of this place. You were quite snobbish when you wanted to be. You liked the little details, even though you acted as though you were above all that. 

Today. Classes. A test to study for. A paper to work on. The day extends out in a never-ending expanse of activity. I feel exhausted. I wish the day would be over already, before the sun has even had a chance to rise. 

Sometimes, I dream that you are here lying next to me. I’m not sure why. But in my dream, it feels so real, so believable, that when I wake, I instinctively reach out to feel for you beside me. The resulting shock is enough to make me nauseous. On those days, I can barely make it to class. The only thing that pushes me is the knowledge of the distraction. I focus on my studies, and I can manage. I can. I am. I will. 

The remnants of a dream. I wish I could sink back into that state of semi-consciousness. I would think about you in my hometown. I would imagine us lying side-by-side on the sand. The world inside my head is so much more comforting than the reality. 

The radio switches on. Every day it is the same. The sounds of the traffic. The smell of smoke. The weight on my chest. The cracks in the ceiling. I lie and listen for a name which I know I will not hear. Sometimes, I believe that it never did exist, that you never existed, and that I imagined it all. On those nights I lay on the bed and whisper your name over and over, like a mantra, so that I will not forget. In this way, I can make sure that you never disappear. 

Kurapika. Kurapika. Kurapika.

The radio switches on.


	2. Bus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel so strange, thinking back like this. It happens so often, these memories flooding forward at such unexpected moments. I look at my reflection and see nothing at all, and I wonder if I’m dreaming.

The ping of a text message being received.

I glance down at the phone in my hand. It’s Analise, asking me if I want to catch up and study. 

I glance at the message, then back at the window, at the streets rolling past. The bus is rather full today and the lady next to me accidentally nudges my hip, pushing me further against the window. It has just begun to rain, droplets of water sliding down the glass, the world slowly turning to watercolour. Today is a full day of classes. I remember the excitement this used to bring me, the giddyness of finally being able to sit in those grand lecture halls, amongst the other med students, and finally feeling like I had achieved something, that I was on the way to making my dream come true. I reach inside and try to stir up that same fire. All I find is cold detachment. 

My phone vibrates again. A question mark from Analise. She’s worried about me, probably. I haven’t been answering her messages. She doesn’t know about you. No one does, except for Gon and Killua. I’ve been avoiding her. She’s bound to suspect something soon. She’s perceptive, like that. 

She doesn't know about you. No one does, except for Gon and Killua. I've been avoiding her. She'd bound to notice soon. She's perceptive, like that.

Analise was the first friend I made when I arrived in this City. On the first day of Orientation she noticed me standing by myself, staring confused at the campus map as I tried to find my way around. She came up to me and introduced herself. 

“Hey,” she said. I turned away from the map to see a small brunette with large eyes. “Are you lost too?” 

“Yes,” I’d answered in slight despair. “Please help me.” 

“Sorry, I’m just as lost as you are,” she replied. “I’m hopeless in the big city. I bet you’re a country kid as well, right?” 

I blinked at her. “How’d you know?” 

She smiled and winked, as if sharing a secret. “I can recognise that kind of bewildered expression anywhere.” 

And just like that, I had made a friend. It was good, having someone there to help navigate the stress of starting college. We’ve spent a lot of time together, but there’s still a certain amount of distance between us, a line I haven’t dared cross. She doesn’t know I’m a Hunter. She doesn’t know about my time during the Exam, or about York New. 

I still haven’t told her about you. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to. What could I possibly say? 

The rain is coming down harder now. I watch the tendrils of water roll down the window, creating zig-zag patterns against the shaking of the bus, like cracks in the glass.

I still have the last text message you sent me. It's still sitting somewhere below the continuous streams of communication which flood in. I haven’t tried to find it, but I know it’s there. Sitting and waiting. I refuse to look. Not yet.

You didn’t text often, though admittedly you preferred it to calling. Sometimes I feel the urge to call your number again, just to feel the dull hope that you will answer. I used to call you every week, at the same time, same place. I would stand on the balcony, breathing in the cool, late afternoon breeze, watching people walk up and down the street below. I’d smoke, sometimes, and watch the grey tendrils float into the sky. Every week, in those seconds between each ring, I’d let myself believe that this would be the time that you picked up. What would I say? I would yell, first. Give you a piece of my mind. Demand to know why you hadn’t picked up. Tell you about how Gon almost died, how I almost became chairman of the Hunter Association. I would yell, make you feel so guilty, wait to hear your excuses. Then, I would ask you how you were, make sure you were okay. Then, I’d tell you how much I missed you. This was my plan. Each week, I’d prepare myself. Each week, I'd be let down.

You didn’t miss me. I should have remembered that. I should have fucking remembered that.

If you had missed me, you would have answered my calls. Why didn’t you answer them? 

It hurt me. It still does. Picking up the phone and calling only to hear that recorded voice message. Not even a personalised one. An electronic voice. It hurt, having Gon near death and having no one to turn to. And even after, months of no reply. I called and called, but you never picked up. I thought I’d never hear from you again. Then you turned up, suddenly, out of nowhere. Why?

I look out the window, catch my reflection staring back. I feel so strange, thinking back like this. It happens so often, these memories flooding forward at such unexpected moments. I look at my reflection and see nothing at all, and I wonder if I’m dreaming. I focus on the smell of the bus, the mixture of the old lady’s flowery perfume and the pollution of the city which sinks between the cracks, the scent of fresh rain hitting cement, the smell of my own cologne on the inside of my wrist.

The rain reminds me of when you came to visit, that time, and fell asleep on the couch, your head resting against my shin, blond hair fanned out against my lap. The rain lashed against the windows as the room slowly turned dark. I was too afraid of disturbing you, so I didn’t bother to turn on the light. I watched you rest, listening to you breathe, happy that you were there, safe and under my watchful eyes.

Why did you never answer my calls? I wish I had asked that, but I was so scared of driving you away. I didn’t want to upset you. Talking to you was so hard, because you were so hard to read. Every time I thought I understood you, I turned out to be wrong. On one hand, your motivations were so simple: revenge is what drove you, it controlled your life. I understand that. I do. But I refuse to even for a second think that you consisted entirely of the wrongs committed against you and your desire for vengeance. There is so much of you that I still do not understand, that I may never understand, that you may have not understood yourself. Sometimes I worry that I never knew you at all, that I twisted you into an idea, a version of yourself which now exists in my mind and only in my mind.

_You know that’s not true._

Do I? You never gave me anything which made me believe differently.

_Yes, I did._ (Your head on my leg, your hair on my lap, the sound of you breathing in the dark.)

Did you?

The bus comes to a jerky stop. I blink, look down at the text on my phone. I shoot off a quick reply to Analise, telling her I’m busy this week, but that I’ll get back to her soon. It’s almost my stop. I watch the window, inhale the scent of floral perfume, and attempt to banish the memories from my mind. In these moments my insecurity gets the best of me, I try to convince myself of things that never happened, try to convince myself that you didn’t care, and that I never knew you. I did. I know I did. Memories are a trap. They blur, like a camera out of focus. I need to watch myself. I cannot let myself get caught in an echo. Worse, I cannot let myself change them. I must stick to the truth.

There was a reason you didn’t pick up those calls. You were busy. You were working. It had nothing to do with me. Right?

Another ping. A reply from Analise. Saying she’ll see me in class on Thursday.

My reflection in the window has disappeared, washed away by the tendrils of rainwater running down the glass like a spider’s web. One day, I’ll look at our text conversations, but not yet. Let me exist here for a while, in this watercolour world. I just need to focus, keep myself from letting the memories blur. I can do it, Kurapika. I will. I promise. I owe you that much, after all.


	3. Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could explain how good it felt, how euphoric, to look up and see you standing there.

Friday night. I’m early. The others won’t be here for another 20 minutes or so. I sit at a table towards the back of the room. From here I can watch the people moving back and forth. I must look rather pitiful, sitting back here all alone. 

I didn’t want to come, didn’t want to sit in this bar and pretend to engage in conversation with these people, who know nothing about me and I nothing of them. Once, I think I would have enjoyed this. Thrived in it. Once, I think they were my friends. Are they not still? It gets hard to even remember what each of them have been up to. I forget the conversations I have as soon as they finish. 

I can practically hear your sigh of disapproval. Always something to complain about, isn’t there? You’d want to see me engaged, wouldn’t you? I don’t know. I used to be so social. I loved to come to bars, chat up women, laugh with my friends, drink until I couldn’t see straight. Now, I just want quiet. Is this how you felt? Tired of the triviality of these activities? But you had different passions. You had goals. I have settled into this state of only wanting quiet. I no longer want to be interesting. I want to be left alone. 

The past week has been the same. I went to class, studied, forgot to buy groceries and forgot to cook food. It went by too fast. I feel detached, like I spent the week watching a doll painted like me complete these tasks. I blinked and now I'm here, sitting with a glass of whisky and only the puppet version of myself for fucking company. In the corner of my eye I see you roll your eyes at my dramatics.

The lights in this bar are turned down low, making every surface red. I watch the reflections in the glass by my hand, watch as they spin and shift. I trace the condensation, see my reflection staring back, dancing and changing. That night, the night I first saw you after York New, after we left each other at the airport, the room was bathed in red light. You had ignored all my calls, and I was so sure I would never see you again, that the last memory I would have of you was your blond hair going into the crowd, your shoulders hunched with exhaustion, chains wrapped around your fingers. You had been ignoring my calls, but when I looked up, across the bar, there you were. Standing at the entrance, scanning the room, your skin bathed red in the low lighting, dressed in that black suit, slender and poised. Was I hallucinating? The clash of voices disappeared, fading into the background. You saw me, eyes widening slightly, mouth turning upwards in a single moment, before falling again. You made your way towards me. 

I was with a group of people, standing frozen as the conversation continued to flow around me. 

“Leorio?” someone said. 

I shook my head, offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’ve just got to… I’ll be right back.” 

I went up to the bar. You slid into the seat next to me. 

“Hi,” you said. 

Your smell, the sound of your voice. I felt suddenly turned inside out. Back to front. You were real, you were here. 

“Kurapika,” I said, more of an exhale than anything. You were looking intently into my face. You were nervous, I realised. “How did you… how did you know I was here?” 

“You’re not that hard to find," you said. The dim lighting cast deep shadows across the planes of your face, the red bouncing off your eyes. You looked so tired, and thinner too. Had you been sleeping, eating, at all? You gestured to the bartender, ordered a drink. You watched it being made, but I couldn’t stop staring at your face. You were here. Your drink slid across the counter and you took a sip. 

“How are you?” I asked, the words tumbling out in an effort to say something, anything. 

“Fine,” you said. There was an awkward pause before you continued. “Melody has been saying that I need to take more breaks. That’s why I’m here. To… take a break.” 

I felt off-balance and out of synch. I had thought I would never see you again, and now you were here, throwing me off course. My nostrils were flooded by the fresh scent of your skin, your clothes. I fumbled for something else to say. I asked about your work. 

“It’s the same.” I watched your finger as it traced the rim of the glass. 

“And…” I paused, “How is the…other work?” 

You straightened, a tiny reaction that no one else would have noticed. I am ashamed, that it made me so happy, being able to read that simple movement. You were here, and I could still understand you, even just a little. 

“Not much progress.” You did not expand. 

I didn’t mind that you didn’t ask me about school, about what I was doing. I wanted you to keep talking. I wanted you to tell me everything, anything. “You mentioned Melody,” I said. "How is she? What kind of hunter is she again? 

The tension in your back eased slightly. “Yes. She's fine. And she's a music hunter.” 

“I didn’t know such a thing existed,” I admitted. 

You made a small noise, almost a scoff. “That doesn’t surprise me.” 

I reeled back in mock offence. “Hey! What is that supposed to mean?” 

You rolled your eyes. A smile dared to pull at your lips. My stomach warmed at the prospect. “Nothing,” you said. 

“No, it meant something. You were taking a jab at me! I’m sorry I’m not as acquainted with all the hunter workings as you are. I am a medical student, I’ll remind you.” 

Your hand was on the table. Next to mine. No chains in sight. I felt the energy pulling me towards it. 

“Gon said that you finally learned Hatsu,” you said, eyes gleaming. 

“Finally? Excuse you-“ I broke off, “Wait, you’ve spoken to Gon?” 

“Of course I have.” 

And just like that, the easy atmosphere was broken. It felt like we had been pulled backwards, ripped out of the comfortable warmth and dunked miles apart. The distance grew cold between us. I was reminded of the hundreds of voicemails, the sound of your recorded voice playing in the back of my head. 

“You answered his calls.” 

You weren’t looking at me anymore, you were staring down at the table. Your hand had retracted. 

“Leorio-“ 

“Don’t.” I couldn’t handle any excuses. I lifted my drink to my lips, let the liquid burn my throat as I downed it all. Your eyes were on the side of my face. I took a deep breath. “I just-“ 

I couldn’t do this. I was supposed to be angry. I had thought about what I would say, if I did ever see you again, had run over it a million times, imagined the confrontation, how I would make you feel so guilty. Instead, I just felt sad. I didn’t want to fight. I wanted you to smile. You looked so tired, done up in that black suit, hair over your eyes. I wanted to reach across that table and take your hand, feel its warmth, see if you have been eating properly, check up on you. I was just glad to have you there. To know that you were safe, just for a second. 

“Leorio?” 

A voice pulls me back. There’s face in front of me. Analise, my mind offers. 

“Hey,” she says with a nervous smile. 

“Hi!” I say, quickly grinning, gesturing to the seat beside me. “How are you?” 

"I'm good," she says. "You?" 

"Fine," I say. "Stressful day?" 

"I reckon," she says, quickly diving into chatter about her day, her classes. She mentions that she hadn’t seen me in the one we usually share, and I make my excuses. Truthfully, I cannot remember where I was at that time, but the lie comes easily. It should concern me, how easy it is these days to create this mask, to pretend to be myself. 

Slowly, more of my classmates trickle into the bar, take their seats at the table. We make idle conversation. I make jokes and they laugh. I watch as the red lights bathe Analise’s face, her long dark hair trailing down her back. Before, she would have taken up my entire attention. She’s smart. We have a good time when we hang out together. Once, I may have liked her. We may have become something more, eventually. Now, all I think about is how she isn’t you. 

“I needed you. I- I really...I was so worried-“ 

I didn’t want to fight. You weren’t looking at me, but down at your glass, watching the lights flicker and swirl, the twist of your own reflection. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. 

I wish I could feel that again, that feeling of having you next to me. I don’t care if I was supposed to be angry, or sad when you appeared at the bar. To have your eyes on the side of my face and your hand on the table. I wish I was with you, not these people. I wish I didn’t keep glancing towards the doorway, imagining your face. In that moment, when you told me you were sorry, it was everything to me. All my pain was erased, because you were there, beside me. Because you had come, and I had seen you. I wish I could explain how good it felt, how euphoric, to look up and see you standing there. 

Next to me, I feel Analise looking at my face. I smile at her, and she smiles back. I feel the skin around my mouth stretch, like plastic. I look past her, towards the entrance, thinking about how I would do anything, give everything, to look up and see you standing there, Kurapika, one last time. 


	4. Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s someone here, Kurapika, who reminds me of you.

It’s hot in here, and stuffy. The professor is sweating, and I can see the perspiration shining on his forehead. The guy next to me rolls up his sleeves with a huff. Why doesn’t someone turn down the heater?

“The exam will be in four parts,” says the professor. I haven’t been paying attention. The guy next to me is writing furiously, his page full of notes and diagrams. I look down at my paper. I’ve written only a few words. The date and time of the exam. At least it’s something.

There’s someone here, Kurapika, who reminds me of you. He sits a few rows in front of me, to the left, down there. From this angle, all I can see is the back of his head, the slope of his neck, the curve of his jaw. It’s the hair, blond and to his shoulders, but its also the way he leans against the desk, hand resting against his cheek, the way he taps his pen against the desk, the way he tucks his hair behind his ear. There’s a smoothness to his movements, a fluidity that you possessed. Each movement looks like it could be sculpted in marble. I watch as his hand comes to rest on his jaw, propping himself up as he gazes at the front of the classroom. My eyes trace each line, making a dot-to-dot drawing in the air. I have never let myself see his face. I stare at the back of his head from a distance, never getting to close, afraid to shatter the illusion. I'm not sure what terrifies me more, seeing a stranger's face and facing the shocking realisation that I will never see your eyes again, or seeing a gaze which too closely mirrors yours, like a physical reminder, a bruise upon my skin. 

Eyes have always been a bit of a cliché. I used to cringe whenever I read some over-dramatic description of some poor girl’s piercing blue gaze, compared to some innocent animal. Yours were like cats. The shape, at least. And the colour. I would never admit it to you out loud in fear of triggering some reaction, but I loved the colour of your eyes. When they were grey or red. It didn’t matter. They shone all the same. I know they were a sensitive area, of course, they were, but in the quiet here I can admit it to myself, whisper it in the privacy of my own mind. A secret I hold, warming my insides. I wonder how you would have reacted if I complimented your eyes. You’d probably put me in the hospital.

“You will have four hours.” The professor scribbles something on the board.

This boy is missing something. A fire. I am not afraid of him, the way I was of you. No, afraid is the wrong word. I was never afraid of you. I was wary, sometimes, but I never seriously believed you would actually hurt me, once we got to know each other. Your every movement held the promise of power, of strength. I knew you could kill me if you wanted. You wouldn’t, but you could. I was in awe of your power. This boy is soft. You were anything but.

Our first meeting was an argument. I was so determined to be seen as serious. I insulted your clan, stupidly and recklessly. Gon saved us from fighting. I hated you at first. I thought you were a brat. I remember standing in the swirling rain, knife brandished, ready to fight. You were glaring at me. I remember those shining eyes. Funny, how wrong first impressions can be. 

I learned to love the way you'd bicker with me. 

You could make me into a fool better than anyone else. Pietro would have loved you. The way you started fights with me, taunting me with petty insults. I learned to let go of my desire to be held in such high esteem. I was fine, as long as you respected me.

“The paper will be worth 40% of your grade for the semester.” He’s sweating. He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

Or maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe it was me who was always starting fights with you, fishing for a reaction. It gets hard to remember who started it, who threw that first sly comment. I loved getting you riled up. Sparking that fire in your gaze. Not for the first time, I wonder what you really thought of me. Did you genuinely find me disagreeable, dumb, and irritable, like you claimed? I know that it wasn’t the case, but so often I find myself sinking into these memories of our disagreements and wondering if you ever considered me seriously at all. I have never been as powerful as you, or Gon, or Killua. I served no purpose to you, not in achieving your mission, not in anything. I am just a med student, barely a hunter.

Sometimes, I wonder if you were flirting with me. Usually, these thoughts come to me late at night as I lie in bed listening to the sounds of the city. I lie and wonder if I had missed something, in all of those arguments, if there was something more. I loved getting you riled up. Did you feel the same? I feel conceited even considering it. 

And yet the idea hangs there, always, hovering at my peripheral. Did you start fights because you found me genuinely dislikeable, or, just maybe, did you do it out of fondness? I’ve never seen you flirt. I wonder what it would have been like. You were always so serious. I could never imagine you flirting with a girl across the bar. Bickering has never been my style, certainly. I liked a smoother approach. I like to be charming. I never charmed you, I know that, Kurapika. You could never be charmed.

Did I want you to be?

The boy presses a pen to his lips. I can see the pale inside of his wrist, where the veins lie. I imagine the feeling of my fingers pressing against the skin, feeling the warmth, the flutter of a heartbeat. I imagine pressing my lips there, hearing a shuddering breath. I imagine glancing up into your face, into your burning eyes, watching the colours dance, feeling your breath on my face, seeing your eyelashes flutter. There’s a flush to your cheeks. Your lips are parted. I press another kiss to the inside of your wrist, taste the skin, hear you breathing, hear myself breathe. Together.

The screech of a chair. People are moving around me. The lecture is over. I feel sick. I think I may vomit. The blond boy is turning around and I quickly avert my eyes. I look down at the ground, my stomach rolling, unable to breathe, confused and upset, not sure why I had begun to think those things, feeling ashamed, but also mourning the interruption, because for a moment, for a second, it felt like you were here, in front of me. It had felt so real.

After a moment, I stand, following the other students out of the lecture theatre. I watch the blond head disappear down the hall. A vision appears: you walking away from me at the airport, pale and withdrawn. Melody walks beside you. Words are hanging in the air, things left unsaid. Your blond hair slowly disappears into the crowd. Don’t go, turn around, fight me again. I’ll stand in the rain, brandish my knife. Just turn around. Come back. 

Standing in the now empty hallway, I feel as though I have been dunked in ice-cold water. Outside, the wind is howling. Inside, it’s hot and stuffy, but I feel cold. The blond boy has disappeared, just like you did, all those months ago. Gone, without a backwards glance. As if I had never mattered. And maybe I hadn’t. I don’t know. I wish I did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter with a passion but whatever. The chapters will get longer after this, I promise.


	5. Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems that there are so many of these silent moments, these days. Pauses where we are thinking of you. You fill these silences, now, Kurapika. The moments where nothing is said. The silent thoughts we carry, which pollute every conversation and every interaction.

It’s late afternoon and I’m walking home from class. The warm sunlight dances across the grass, on the stone steps and beyond. It’s been a long day and I am exhausted. I pray that tonight I will be able to sleep, finally, and let my mind rest.

Earlier, Gon had called. It will forever cause a spark of joy in my chest, hearing him alive and well, so full of energy and excitement. He always forgets that he doesn’t need to yell over the phone, that I can hear him perfectly well when he’s talking at normal volume. He spoke of Whale Island, of the schoolwork his Aunt forces upon him, of Killua and Alluka’s adventures, of gathering his strength by running all over the island.

“You have to come and visit,” he'd said. I could practically see him grinning. 

“Yes, of course,” I answered. The smile stretching across my face hurt, my muscles not used to the movement. “I’m going home once the semester ends, so I can come after that. Around New Years.”

“Let’s have a New Years celebration! Killua will come too. He’ll bring Alluka and you guys can meet! It'll be great, all of us together-” He trailed off.

There was an awkward pause, the both us thinking the same thing. It seems that there are so many of these silent moments, these days. Pauses where we are thinking of you. You fill these silences, now, Kurapika. The moments where nothing is said. The silent thoughts we carry, which pollute every conversation and every interaction.

“Sounds great, Gon,” I said. My throat seemed tighter, suddenly, and I could barely get the words out.

“Leorio?” said Gon, his tone switching from bubbly to serious in an instant. "I actually called to see how you were doing, you know. I just wanted to make sure that you're feeling okay-" 

“I’m fine,” I answered. There was another beat of silence.

“Leorio-“

“I’m sorry, Gon,” I said, “I’ve got to go to my next class. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay…” Gon sounded disappointed, but resigned, “Talk soon, okay?”

“Of course.” I quickly hung up the phone. 

I wasn’t ready to have that conversation with Gon. The one in which he asked how I was doing, and I would try to lie, and then eventually be forced to admit that I wasn’t sleeping, that I couldn’t stop sinking into these memories, replaying everything over and over, questioning everything. It’s fine, normal even. Part of the process. I just can’t handle talking about it, not yet.

Now, walking home, I find myself sinking back again. Reality seems to melt when I’m not paying attention. My thoughts drift from this to that, but always seem to latch back onto you.

I see you everywhere, these days, especially in nature. I look at how the light folds itself between the leaves of trees, creating intricate patterns on the ground, and I think of the light against your hair when we were walking through the forest during the Hunter Exam, before York New, before your hands and heart were chained so tightly. Your shoulders hung easier, then, your steps lighter. I can close my eyes and will forward a vision of you walking in front of me, turning and offering me a smile. If I could, I would freeze that moment, crystalize it, cradle in the palm of my hand, bring it out and look at it as a reminder, hold it suspended in time forever. But I can’t, and each time I call forward that memory I feel it change, slightly, the colours fading, your smile shifting. You’re evaporating, slowly, and it terrifies me. Will there come a time when I won’t remember your eyes, your voice, the colour of your hair?

You’ve disappeared from this world, from my life. Your voice, the warmth of your skin, the flash of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the simple weight of your breath. Your body is gone, and now you exist only in the folds of our memory. Of mine, Gon’s, Killua’s, Melody’s, Hisoka’s, even the Troupe’s. And in each, you are someone different. One day, when all of us are also gone, you will cease to exist. Your clan, one day, will be forgotten, and you with them.

I am terrified of this, and so I cling to every memory so tightly. I know I will not forget, not so soon, not when everything I walk past reminds me of you, not when I cannot stop thinking about the shape of your legs, your lips, and every conversation we ever shared. I walk through the low-hanging branches of the trees on campus and think of our time during the exam. I sit on the couch and feel your head against my shin. I look at my phone and think about the months I spent standing on my balcony, hearing your answering machine play on repeat. 

I’m fine. I’m functioning. I go to class. I study. I go out with friends, even when I don’t want to. I’m living. I haven’t broken down. I won’t. You wouldn’t want that. You’d want me to keep going. I’m certain of it.

It’s dark by the time I return to the apartment. I slide the key into the lock, push open the door, step into the shadows of the room. It’s in these moments, the moments when everything is dark and cold, that I feel truly alone. Is this how you felt, always? I’ve spent countless hours picturing the places you must have stayed, all alone in hotel rooms, lying awake on top of the covers. I imagine what it must have been like, before the exam, when you knew nobody. Did you wander from city to city, holding the memories of your people, knowing nobody and with nobody knowing you? I’m so glad that we met, that I could have known you, provided some comfort, even if all I gave you was a single moment where you could forget the burden you carried. No matter how alone I feel, I simply remember this, remember that I have Gon and Killua only a phone call away, that I have friends at school, people who know me.

I enter the apartment and close the door behind me. Then, I walk through the room, turning on the lamp, the television, repositioning the photographs on the bookcase. Doing these things I can create the illusion of warmth, a reminder that I am so lucky, to be here and alive. Maybe, soon, I will talk to Gon. We’ll talk and I’ll be okay. I will look at the conversations on my phone and I will be okay. Soon.

But not yet.

My fingers hover over the photo of all of us, my arms around you and Killua, Gon grinning. You look so irritated, glaring at the side of my face. I remember that day. I wish we could all be together again like that. New Years, Gon had said, we'll all be together again. But we won't be. There'll always be a gap where you used to stand. The silences where your voice should be. I don't want to go and feel that hollow presence so strongly. But I will, for Gon, for Killua, for Alluka. 

Soon, I will be okay, I promise. I have time, before then. 

Except now, staring at your face, frozen in time, I am shattered. It’s the simplest things. I see you everywhere. The smile on your face, turned back to look over your shoulder, the light dancing in your eyes. The lights warm the room. I am not alone, but I am still shattered. Moment by moment, I feel things losing their permanence. Reality becomes transparent. My skin starts to melt. I sink into the dream, into the memories. Soon, I will call Gon, I will look through the messages on my phone, I will look around and feel solid. For now, I feel as though I am made more of memories then blood and bones and skin. I am melting, sinking into a dream. The room fades away. My fingers press against the glass. I stand here and shatter, shatter, shatter, until, finally, there is nothing left. 

Eventually, I find my way to bed. I am exhausted. I listen to the sounds of the traffic. Tomorrow, I have to get up and do it all again. And the next day. And the next. 

I fall asleep with all the lights on, but the room still feels terribly dark.


	6. Nen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I watch as the houses along the street light up one by one and imagine what it would be like if you were here, the two of us side by side, your face hidden in the shadows, only the sound of our breaths between us, our hands brushing, the warmth of your body keeping me company, the two of us, me with you, and you with me, together, together.

On Saturday afternoons I train in Nen.

I have a teacher, though I do not know his name. We meet on the outskirts of the city, where run-down buildings meet the tall grass, the edge of the wilderness. Walking down the empty streets, I look up at the sky and feel the cool air hit my face. Each step takes me further from the noise and smoke of the city, towards the quiet of the country. I taste the sun on my tongue, the smell of fresh flowers, dirt, and leaves settling into my skin. It reminds me of home and with each step, I feel my shoulders relax, my muscles loosen, the weight which sits on my chest becoming lighter. I am addicted to this feeling of running away. For a brief moment, I can ignore the fact that when the sun starts to set I will be forced to turn and go back to my apartment, my box sitting amongst the prison of the city.

The midday sun caresses the back of my neck as I turn and walk down the final street, past the broken buildings and into the embrace of the open field. I walk through the tall grass, feel the sensations on my fingers, my ankles. Here, I can be at peace. I can exhale.

I come upon the usual spot. A clearing where the grass ends. I am early, so I crouch down onto the soft dirt, listening to the buzz of the flies, watching the horizon shimmer. I begin the usual exercise, focusing on the feeling of my aura encompassing my body. After a moment, I extend my finger, letting my aura form a small bubble at the tip, holding it there before letting it detach. I no longer need to train in this. Detaching aura and letting it hang in the air has become as easy as breathing. And yet I find it so relaxing, watching these tiny bubbles hang in the air. I watch as I cause it to move, around in circles then back again, before throwing it through the air. I watch it hit the ground some metres away, bursting into a cloud. Standing, I bring forward another bubble, larger this time, and propel it forward with more force, as if I were trying to hit an opponent. It, like the first, hits the dirt and explodes in an array of tiny blue and white sizzling fragments, like pieces of glass, or sparks of electricity. They hang, suspended, before they begin to fall in a shower of glittering colour.

“You’re still holding back,” says a voice from the tall grass.

I turn, startled, as a man appears. Long dark hair pulled up into a ponytail, dressed in brown slacks and a training shirt, my teacher gives me a critical look. He is clean-shaven, with few wrinkles in his dark skin. He appears to be around middle-aged. Who knows how old he really is. I do not know my teacher’s name. All I know is that he is a hunter and an Emitter. That is all I need to know.

“You have mastered these techniques,” he continues, moving closer, “why do you continue to practice them?”

I look back to look at the lingering sparks, now fading into the earth, wishing I could answer his question. In all honesty, I do not completely know myself. Each week, my teacher urges me to strengthen my hatsu and develop Remote Punch. He pushes me to expand my ability, probing me to answer why I wish to have this ability, to look inside myself and push my limits, to really understand my nen. How do I tell him that I cannot stop and consider these things, in fear that I will have no answers?

The man sighs. He moved towards me, sits down on the dirt.

“Come,” he says, “show me your hatsu.”

I nod, crouching once more. I lay my hand flat on the dirt, quickly moving through the other three stages. They hardly require any thought, these days, but I practice non the less. I feel my aura bubbling around me, pushing into my hand, letting it detach and form a swirl of black. I push downwards, picturing where I wish to see my hand appear, on the other side of the clearing. I feel the sizzle of my aura as an electric-like energy swirls around my wrist. Then, I feel my hand be swallowed by the darkness, a brief feeling of numbness before it suddenly appears, bursting out up ahead. I feel a brief burst of triumph at the success.

“Good,” says my teacher. “Now hold it.”

I do as he says, but immediately I begin to feel cold. The detachment between my wrist and my hand, the feeling of numbness which crawls up my skin. I flex my fingers, watch as they repeat the movement on the other side of the clearing. That feeling of strangeness, the same one which almost overtook my on the bus the day it rained, begins to seep into my chest. I am reminded of how I felt just a few days ago, staring at the photo on the bookcase. Since that night I have been drifting, hardly thinking, just acting, like a puppet going through the motions. Suddenly, I feel trapped. I feel dissected. I feel, for split second, complete and utter panic, that my hand is stuck in the darkness, that I will never break free. A vision of you, sitting in the back of the car, Chrollo chained beside you. Your eyes shining vivid red. I imagine those chains being turned on me, and I am ensnared. My hand is stuck, and I gasp, suddenly unable to breathe. My vision swims.

“Leorio.” My teacher’s voice. “Breathe. Focus on the feeling of your aura. Your hand, you can feel it. Focus, stay present.”

I take a shuttering breath. He’s right. My hand is there. I am crouching in the dirt. I can hear the cicadas, the sway of the long grass, the feeling of the sun on my back. Slowly, I feel my aura dissipate, and I remove my hand from the swirling darkness. I sit back, let myself fall into the earth. For several moments, or it could be minutes, I just lay there and breathe. I stare at the cloudless blue sky, feeling nothing, my body feeling melted like wax at the base of a candle.

"I think we should take a break from these sessions.”

I turn my head and look at where my teacher sits. His dark eyes stare into my own. His long hair flows in the breeze.

“You are not in the right mindset to be practising your hatsu,” he says. “You need a clear mind. You need to be able to meditate and look inside yourself. Tell me, have you been meditating as I have instructed?”

I haven’t been. I can’t. Every time I sit down and try and quiet my mind, memories assault me. I cannot stop thinking about you, replaying every interaction over and over. I cannot sit silently. The only break I have is when I am out, doing things. Focusing on something else. Even then, I struggle to keep the memories at bay.

“That’s what I thought,” he says.

Finally, I find my voice. “No,” I say, “I can keep going. This was nothing. I promise I can keep working.” I need to keep working. “I’m fine.”

“Leorio,” my teacher says, stern and immediately silencing me. A lifetime of experience passes his features and I watch as his eyes almost sink back into his face, flashes of memories flickering in his gaze. It’s only now that I see how old this man truly is. “You are grieving. I do not know what, or for whom, but I have seen many men go through what you are going through now. I myself have felt it, the hollowness of losing someone you care about. I can see it in your face, the longing for that person. I too have lost someone very dear to me, and I understand that longing to have one last conversation, one last chance to speak to them. There is guilt, and also regret, in your eyes. I can see it clearly. But Leorio, you cannot keep training like this. We will not practice your hatsu until you can answer my questions about what it is you want your nen to be able to achieve. And until then, I want you to confront the things that you regret. Until then, you will not be able to heal.”

His words swirl around my mind. “I don’t even know…” I say, without even meaning to, “I don’t even know what I’m meant to think.”

The old man stands, turns his back, and begins to walk back into the long grass. “You need to figure that out, Leorio,” he says.

I watch him disappear in between the swaying reeds as I lie on my back amongst the dry dirt. I stare at the blue sky, now less vivid than before, the hour slowly growing later.

Regret? Guilt? I don’t regret much. I regret not doing more to help Pietro, but even I know there was little I could have done. I was a kid and poor. There was nothing that I could have done. No, I don’t regret much. As you would like to remind me, I am disgustingly straightforward. I say what I think and rarely think before I act. I called you, week after week, without shame. I sent you texts, not caring how desperate I appeared. You called me rash, unapologetic, hot-headed, as if those things are always bad things to be. I don’t regret much. You would say it’s not in my nature.

Then why did the old man say that he saw guilt in my eyes? Why did he say that there were things that I regretted? God, that feeling of strangeness is coming again. I don’t want to think about this. Thinking hurts, makes everything spin, makes me feel like I’m melting. Did you feel like this, after you lost your clan? Maybe. But you had your revenge. I saw how it narrowed you, kept you moving, kept you focused. What do I have? An almost one-sided conversation on my phone, a photograph in my apartment, and memories. I don’t have anybody to go after, because I don’t even know how you wound up in that alley. I wouldn’t have believed it if it wasn’t for Melody. She told me, you know. Anyone else and I wouldn’t believe them. _Emperor Time_ , she told me, _he used it for too long, never woke up again. I’m sorry, we don’t know what happened_.

Is that was I regret? Not stopping you from using your nen? I can’t, I would never have stopped you, I couldn’t have. If there was one thing in your life that you had to do, it was that. I knew that as soon as I met you. Your revenge was as part of you as anything else. I don’t regret not denying you of that.

By the time I manage to lift myself up of the ground, the sun has started to set, casting the sky in stunning purples and reds. I walk back through the reeds on numb feet, barely noticing the buildings I pass as the world turns slowly darker. The old man’s words replay over and over in my head. _I don’t even know what to think._ That’s what I said to him. _I don’t even know what to think_.

_That’s what you need to figure out, Leorio._

How can I figure that out, when every thought I have about you makes me feel like I am being pulled apart, shattered into a million pieces? How can I ever begin to try and understand you, in all of your complexities, the ins and outs of your mind, when I can count the times you were completely open with me, completely vulnerable, on one hand? And even then, looking back with the faded colours of hindsight, I can tell there were still things you were holding back, keeping from me, a secret you held in your heart. How can I ever know how you felt, how I felt? How can I?

Questions swirl in my mind as I walk through the darkened street towards the prison I inhabit deep in the city. I watch as the houses along the street light up one by one and imagine what it would be like if you were here, the two of us side by side, your face hidden in the shadows, only the sound of our breaths between us, our hands brushing, the warmth of your body keeping me company, the two of us, me with you, and you with me, together, together. Questions swirl in the space between us, questions which I wish I could utter out loud. Instead they hover within me, a single light which warms my body but fades on the moment of exhale, like water in the palm of your hand, here for a moment, but impossible to hold onto. My thoughts my prison, the memory of you my chains, the question my mantra:

_What do I regret? What do I regret? What do I regret?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nen is so confusing so take these descriptions lightly. I really don't know how it works so I just made it up as I went along with the help of the Wiki. Also yes, Emperor Time. Still sad about that one.


	7. Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It fascinates me how these moments can repeat with different people, at different times. The memories become echos which vibrate through my life. Everything repeats, but slightly differently, in different colours, in contrasting keys.

Exams are a week away.

Analise and I have been studying in the library since mid-morning. Now, it’s late afternoon. Orange light spills in through the window and over our piles of sheets, pens, and our empty coffee cups.

All-day I’ve been struggling to concentrate. Analise has noticed. She keeps giving me odd looks, snapping her fingers and telling me to get back to work. Now, it’s nearing sundown. My eyes have begun to itch from the strain of staring at a page all day. I feel like I haven’t remembered anything that I’ve read. I wish I could just go to sleep.

“Hey,” says Analise suddenly. I turn away from where I have been staring out the window at the swaying orange trees. She’s giving another concerned look. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine…” I answer, confused. I pretend to go back to my work, staring down at my page with fake concentration.

I hear her sigh. “No,” she says, putting down her pen, “I mean, are you doing alright? In general, not like just right now.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting this, for her to actually ask. I should have. Analise is perceptive. She is strong-willed and notices everything. She speaks her mind and isn’t afraid to ask questions. She reminds me of you, in that way. “Yeah, I’m alright. Why?”

“Leorio,” she says. Her eyes narrow, caging me in. She’s got that look on her face, one which says that she isn’t going to let me get away with brushing this off. I remember when you used to give me looks like that. “Come on. You’ve been acting strangely lately. For months, really, but I’ve been noticing it a lot in the last few weeks. What’s been going on?”

“I-“ Do I tell her? No. I can’t. I have to keep her separate from all of that. No one knows I’m a Hunter. I have to keep those two worlds separate. Section them off in my mind. My past in one room, school in another, and the other world, the one with you, in another. I can’t let them overlap. This is how I manage.

I smile at her. “Analise, it’s nothing, really. I’m just stressed.”

She isn’t fooled. She folds her hands in front of her, levels me with an intense gaze. She isn’t letting me go, not this time. “I’ve seen you stressed,” she says, “this is different. You aren’t acting like yourself. Every time we do things together you act like you’d rather be somewhere else. You seem unfocused and sad when you think no one is paying attention, but you act happy when people are looking. I’ve noticed.”

Of course, she has. She notices everything. She’s smart, just like you were. Suddenly, I begin to feel trapped again. Visions of chains and red eyes flash before me. I’m back in that car, hands on the steering wheel, telling you to calm down.

“Analise I really don’t think- I don’t really want-“ I feel my breathing begin to quicken. “

"It’s okay,” she says, sensing my discomfort. “Leorio, hey, it’s okay.” She looks around, then stands with a sense of purpose. “Let’s take a break. Come on.”

For a moment I just sit there and stare at her.

“Come on,” she repeats.

She begins to walk towards the exit. I stand on shaky legs and race after her.

We exit the library and into the late afternoon sun. For a long moment, we are silent, walking along the brick path and beneath the low-hanging trees. I feel the cool breeze and wish I had brought my jacket.

“You don’t have to talk about if you don’t want to,” says Analise after some time has passed, “but I’m here if you need someone to listen.”

I feel myself exhale. “I just- I don’t really know how,” I manage to say. It’s the truth. I don’t know how to talk to anyone, these days. I can’t even talk to Gon, and he knows about everything that happened.

“That’s okay. How about we play a bit of a game?”

“A game?"

“Yeah,” she says, completely serious, “My little brother didn’t use to talk very much. We used to play this game to help him answer questions. I’ll ask you something, and you can tell me wether hot, warm, or cold, with hot being ‘yes, you’re exactly right’, cold being, 'no or you’re completely wrong’ and warm being somewhere in the middle.”

“I’m not a child,” I say, stalling.

“No,” she says, patient, “but I think this could help. Do you want to try it?”

Do I? I wish I could tell her, help to ease this weight on my chest. She’s been one of my closest friends in recent years. If anyone could help me, could be a listening ear, she could. And I wouldn’t have to tell her much, just answer her questions. Easy. God, it would feel good to share it with someone, to let you out of my head. Sometimes I convince myself that nothing is real, that you never existed. Speaking it out loud would validate you, would validate me.

“Okay.”

“Good.” We turn, walk down a flight of stairs, towards the oval. A few students are laying on the grass. Some wave and Analise waves back, but doesn’t slow down. “Alright, first question, did something happen to you?”

“Cold,” I answer.

“Okay, did something happen to someone else?”

Yes. Something did happen to you; we just don’t know exactly what that was. “Hot.”

“Was this person a family member?”

“Cold.”

“Okay, a friend?”

“Hot.” A friend. That’s what you were. Why then, does the word feel so inadequate?

“Do I know them?”

“Cold.” 

"Were they someone who is a part of your secret, ‘I can’t tell people about this’ business?”

I grit my teeth. I don’t like that she knows about that. Is that really the impression I’ve left, when people have asked me where I’ve gone off to, on those occasions when I have to train my Nen, or when I had to travel to see Gon? “Hot.”

“Okay,” she hums, thinking carefully for a moment. “Is it to do with this secret business, and that’s why you can’t tell me, or anyone, about it?”

“Warm.” It’s a mixture.

“Hmm, okay. Do you mean that what happened to them has to do with it, or is it more concerned with what’s happening to you now?”

“That’s not a closed question.”

“Sorry. But which is it?”

“…The first.”

"It seems complicated.”

It is. It’s always been complicated, with you. Nothing was ever easy or straightforward. Why would this be any different?

“Okay, maybe if it’s something you can’t answer, you can say something else… how about, ‘frozen’?”

“Really?” I say.

“Yeah, just say that and I won’t ask any more questions and just leave it.”

“…Fine.”

“Is that person okay now?”

My breath starts to quicken, because the answer is no. No, you’re not okay. You weren’t okay long before you died. I should have helped you. I should have done something. Why didn’t I?

“Cold.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. We’ve walked past the oval, into the shade behind the science buildings. It’s suddenly freezing, and I shiver involuntarily.

“Okay, Leorio, it’s okay,” says Analise, voice slow and calm. We stop walking, and she turns towards me. “Was this person very close to you?”

“Hot,” I say. Yes, you were. You were very close to me. My best friend. I don’t know if I was yours, but you were mine. I wish I knew what you thought of me. You became a part of me, I’m not sure when, but you left a part of you inside of me. Yes, you were very close to me. I held you to my chest, let the warmth of your skin feed the fire inside my body. Hot, hot, hot. Did I leave a piece of myself with you? I wish I knew.

“Okay,” says Analise. Has she been speaking? I can’t remember. “How about we take you home. Sound good?”

I nod, and we begin to walk back to the library. She doesn’t touch me and doesn’t speak either. I’m glad. I don’t think I can utter another word.

The trip goes in a blur. We enter my apartment and I quickly turn on all the lights and the TV. I sit down on the couch.

“Leorio?”

“Yeah?” I look over my shoulder. Analise is standing at the bookcase.

“Is the someone in this photo?”

“Yeah.”

She hums. “Is it the blond boy?”

How did she know? I nod, not willing to make myself speak. Analise tuts, then comes and sits down beside me. I can smell her floral perfume. She leans back against the back of the couch, sighs and turns towards me. I copy her movement. We lay there, face to face. Her dark eyes look into mine. It reminds me of another time, on that rainy evening, when you lay in that exact position, your face next to mine, and I looked into your eyes. It fascinates me how these moments can repeat with different people, at different times. The memories become echos which vibrate through my life. Everything repeats, but slightly differently, in different colours, in contrasting keys.

“You can’t keep this all bottled up inside, Leorio,” says Analise, her voice barely a whisper. I can see the freckles on her nose, this close, could count her eyelashes. “It’s not good for you. You need to talk about this with someone. It doesn’t have to be me, if you don’t want. Is there anyone you can talk to?”

Is there? Yes. Gon. He wants to talk. Has tried to, multiple times. I nod.

“Good,” she says. She looks away, for a moment, past my shoulder. “I feel like I’m watching you fade further every time I see you, and it’s scaring me.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“No,” she says, looking back at my face. “It’s not your fault. It’s just…” she pauses, clears her throat. “I’ve seen someone else go through what you’re going through and it didn’t end well. I just don’t want to sit by and watch someone disappear again. I don’t want what happened to them happen to you.”

For a moment I don’t know what to say. Then, “I know how you feel,” I say. “I- I should have done more, to help him.” The words leave my body in a rush, words I didn’t even know I had until they were there, spoken into the air. “I wish he had let me help him.”

Is this what the old man had meant, when he said regret?

“It’s okay, Leorio,” says Analise, “Don’t blame yourself. I know you, okay? I know that you would’ve done all you could have.”

I shake my head, unable to speak. Red eyes. Your chained hands. You left a piece of yourself within me, trapped. I’m lying, still. Something isn’t sitting right. It hovers in the air between our bodies, a feeling of electricity. I remember it, when you laid next to me, your hair fanned out on the pillow. Something sitting between us. The building of momentum. A wave about to crash. The static in the air before a storm. A rising crescendo.

“I wish I would stop being so confused,” I whisper.

It doesn’t make sense, but Analise nods anyway. “You’ll figure it out,” she says. “You’ll figure it out.”

 _Will I?_ I think. _Will I?_ My teacher’s words echo. _That’s what you need to figure out._

We don’t say anything more, just lay on the couch side by side. After a while, Analise gets up and goes to the kitchen, rustles through the cabinets and starts to prepare dinner. I sit and listen to her hum whilst stirring the pot on the stove. Eventually, I turn on the TV and we sit and eat our food whilst quietly laughing along to the poorly made jokes. It’s nice. For the first time in a while I feel lighter, the weight on my chest less present than before. There is something there, still, but I for the first time I feel a step closer to understanding. Just uttering the words out loud has left me feeling more solid, less like I’m shattering.

A while after we’ve finished eating Analise goes to leave.

“Thank you,” I say to her at the door.

She smiles, pulls me into a hug. I inhale the sweet smell of her hair.

“Talk to someone, okay?” she says as she pulls away.

“I will,” I answer. I will. At New Years, I will see Gon and Killua. I’ll talk to them. I will.

“Good.” She turns and leaves, and I close the apartment door behind her.

I look around at the empty apartment, at the dirty bowls at the sink. My prison. She’s a good friend, Analise. She’ll make an excellent doctor.

That night, I sleep for a total of 10 hours, the first time in what feels like months. Maybe, finally, things are looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me longer than I expected because I've been sick. Also, I hate writing dialogue. Yay.


	8. Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is where I have always meant to be. You and me, together, give and take, you leaning towards me, and me towards you. The static hangs in the air, building, like a wave about to crash, a mounting crescendo. I feel as though reality has been broken, smashed, and let in is the light of the sun, finally. Let in is the universe.

I finish the exam with barely any time to spare.

Leaving the hall amongst the throb of the other students, I can barely remember what was on the paper. I hope I answered the questions well. I feel like hope is all I can manage, these days.

Things have been going well, the past week. Ever since my talk with Analise, things have been better. I feel lighter. Smiling is easier. These memories and reminders no longer feel so painful. Things are remaining concrete and permanent. Reality no longer feels like it is melting.

What I do remember of the exam is that there was a diagram of an eye. I cannot remember what it related to, but I remember the eye. Of course, it made me think of you. I’d be more shocked if it didn’t.

A week ago, that image would have shattered me. Now, I can think of it and feel okay. It hurts, but less so.

The eye has reminded me of the other aspect of your quest: to collect the eyes of your people. How many did you get? You told me that you had collected some. Where are they now? I assume Melody has them. Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe they are still sitting in their hiding place, wherever that is. Maybe they are buried alongside you. I don’t know. I still haven’t visited the grave. Melody said that she would tell me when I was ready. I told her I had to keep going to school for the time being. That’s what you would have wanted. I went to the funeral, but Melody told me that you were to be buried some-place else. I hope, wherever that is, that it pleases you. That it’s beautiful, and peaceful, how you would have wanted.

But of course, you would be buried back at your home. It wouldn’t have been much of a journey, from the funeral to there. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

I wish you had been able to show me your home. I would have liked that. It would have been beautiful, seeing the place where you grew up. Intimate, as well. A sign of trust.

I could go, now. I feel better. I could go and visit you. I should call Melody.

I keep thinking about trust, these days, and intimacy. The old man’s words have been getting to me, circling my mind. It’s almost as if my talk with Analise has sparked something inside me. Like that day in the lecture, when I was looking at that guy who reminds me of you. I thought that was a one-off, a freak incident brought about by grief and a sense of longing. Of course, I miss you, wish for your closeness. It makes sense, that my brain mistook that for desire, for physical intimacy.

Except that lately, since last week, those moments have been getting more frequent. My thoughts wander to the strangest things, things I don’t remember considering. Things are brighter, but I feel just as lost, just as confused.

The other day, I found myself picturing you lying next to me, again. At first, it was the usual image, but then it began to transform, and I realised you were naked beneath the sheets. You had a yellow tinge to your skin, like that time in York New when you passed out for several days. I could see the shape of your body, the rise and fall of your ribcage, your chest, the length of your legs. I imagined each curve, from ankle to knee to hip to waist to armpit to elbow to wrist then back to the curve of your neck. I found myself imagining what it would be like to touch that skin, to feel its warmth.

But this wasn't desire. I know that. You were sick, and I was checking to see if you had a temperature. My gaze was analytical. Nothing more.

I have never been attracted to men. I remind myself of this, but I can’t help but find it irrelevant. The words should mean something, should validate something inside me, but I can’t help but simply not care for their meaning. Love is more than an attraction. Not that you weren't attractive, no you were breathtaking. It's just that- 

Why am I suddenly thinking of love? Oh God, the old man’s words have affected me more than I thought.

The exam. I am exhausted. That’s all. My thoughts are jumbled, I can hardly make sense of them. I need a bath. I need to relax. The next exam isn’t for a few days. Heaps of time to prepare.

I ride the bus back to the apartment, step inside and go about the routine of turning on the lights, purposefully avoiding the bookcase. I step into the bathroom and start running the bath. I haven’t used it in a while and the porcelain needs cleaning. Everything in the apartment needs cleaning. I'll do it after exams are finished before I leave for home. I'm feeling much better. I can do that. 

Shedding my clothes, I check the temperature of the water before searching the cabinets for soap. Behind some shaving cream sits a sky-blue bottle, one I’ve never seen before. I pull it out and read the label. It’s soap, that’s for sure, but I don’t remember buying it. I open it and pour some onto my hand, inhaling the scent.

Immediately, it feels like I have been slapped in the face.

I almost gag. My eyes begin to water. I can’t breathe, can't see. Gasping, I rush over to the sink, turning on the tap and desperately try to wash the soap away. But the smell is everywhere. I can’t escape it. I can taste it, feel it sinking into my skin. It’s you. That smell is you. This soap was yours, wasn’t it? You left it here that time you came to visit, when you dropped by unannounced and stayed in this apartment for two whole days. Inhaling, it’s like you’re standing next to me. It’s the sharp scent of something fresh, but also woody. Smooth and earthy, a mix of oakmoss and amber. I squeeze my eyes shut and I can almost feel you next to me, your hand hovering over the small of my back, your clothes rustling as you undress. I hear the small splash as you submerge yourself in the bath.

“Thank you, Leorio.”

I’m crouching next to you as you rest your head against the porcelain, hair falling around your face. You’re injured, and I’m helping you wash the rest of the blood away. I’d managed to get most of it off before I helped you into the bath, but there are still some areas which need cleaning. You refused to get completely undressed, so you still wear your underwear and a loose singlet.

“It’s alright,” I say. You look exhausted. There are deep shadows under your eyes, as if someone had smudged charcoal beneath the lash line. I resist the urge to reach out and trace the ridges with my finger, connect the dots between your cheeks, over the bridge of your nose, down the hollows of your cheekbone. “I just want you to rest, for a little bit. Doctor’s orders”

“You’re not a doctor yet,” you tell me. You let out a small sigh when I run the washer over your collar bone and I feel my cheeks redden. “Still a student.”

“I will be soon,” I say. “Then you will have to do everything I say.”

You let out a small chuckle. Your eyes drift shut. “You wish.”

“I do wish. I hate seeing you get hurt like this.” I watch the flutter of your eyelashes against your cheeks.

“I don’t do it on purpose, besides it’s-“

“Necessary, I know.” I let out a frustrated sigh, ringing out the washer and re-wetting it again. “I’ll never tell you to stop, you know that.”

I see your eyes open. “I do.”

“Do you?” I ask.

“Of course.” You turn then, and my hand falls away. I stare into your face as you fix me with that determined look. “And even if you did, I wouldn’t listen.”

“Don’t I know it,” I say. The joke falls flat. I’m blushing, having your face so close to mine. Your eyes burn. I feel myself leaning closer, pulled into you like a planet towards the sun. Gravity. Impossible to fight. Why have I been fighting? I feel like this is where I have always meant to be. You and me, together, give and take, you leaning towards me, and me towards you. The static hangs in the air, building, like a wave about to crash, a mounting crescendo. I feel as though reality has been broken, smashed, and let in is the light of the sun, finally. Let in is the universe. Screw physics, screw science, all I want is you, the taste of your skin, your lips on mine, the feeling of your hair beneath my hand, your breath against my mouth. Is this what I have been missing, all my life? Your hands find my face. Those hands have killed people, and yet I trust them implicitly. I trust you, implicitly. Do you trust me?

The sound of water hitting tiles. I blink. The water of the bath has overflowed. I stand quickly and turn off the tap. I stare at the wet floor, the realisation washing over me like an icy cold wave, leaving me chilled and breathless. 

Although we never said it out loud, we both knew. Or at least, you did. Did you? You must have. You were so intelligent, so perceptive. You must have seen it. I was in love with you. It’s obvious now. How have I only just realised? The smell of the soap you used to use. It brought everything forward, into the light. I was in love with you. Am still in love with you. I surely haven’t stopped.

The smell of you, it was like you were right here, laying in the bath, your skin flushed pink. You were here, for just a second. 

Except that never happened. I never helped you wash your scratches in the bath. We had a similar conversation, sitting on the couch after you went into the bathroom and ran the bath, and I sat out in the living room. That wasn’t a memory. That never happened.

Those moments between us. The things that I missed. That’s what’s been there, just out of view. How have I not realised? My eyes tracing the outline of your body under the sheets, my hand on your forehead, your head on my leg, hand against my ankle.

Oh, God. I can’t do this. I can’t realise that I’m in love with you now, after you’re gone. Why didn’t I realise it sooner? I could have done something about it. Why didn’t I do something? I was living under the pretence that we would have forever. How stupid. How stupid and naïve. As if forever was something that we could have.

There’s water all over the floor. Your soap bottle lies on the tiles. I kneel, head against the bath, cool porcelain pressed up against my forehead. Cold, the opposite of the damp heat of your forehead. I can still see your parted lips, your yellow-tinged skin, your chained hand. Red eyes which flashed in my rear-view mirror. An eyeball lies printed on paper, labelled and dissected. I can still see the floating pair of glowing eyes in their container.

I was stupid. God, I was stupid.

I’m so sorry, Kurapika, that it took me until you were gone. I’m so sorry.

“You’ll figure it out,” Analise had told me.

“That’s what you need to figure out Leorio,” the old man had said.

“I don’t even know what I’m meant to think,” is what I said.

Now, I know. Which was better, the knowledge or the ignorance? The hopeless certainty or the shattering confusion?

“I’m not staying long,” you told me, after we left that bar, the night you came to see me after months of not speaking. You leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed. I watched the side of your face as you watched the passing traffic, watched the night lights dance across your features, the colours swirling in your eyes. “I have to get back.”

“Can I see you again?” I had asked. Hopeless, devoted, chasing after you always. How had I not seen how enamoured I was with you?

“Soon,” you answered. “I can’t give you a when.”

“A ‘soon’ is better than a ‘never’,” I replied.

You hummed, turned and looked at me. You looked so thin in that suit, done up like a doll. The distance between us had never seemed so great.

“Will you answer my calls?” I asked.

“Don’t count on it.”

I sighed. “What if I text you?”

“Hm. Maybe.”

“A ‘maybe’ is better than a ‘don’t count on it’.”

You smiled at that. My insides warmed, like houses on a darkened street, lighting up one-by-one.

You took a step closer. I could smell you, this close, that smell of the soap now laying on the wet tiles, smooth and earthy, a mix of oakmoss and amber. You reached out, laid a hand on my arm. Through the layers of my suit jacket my skin burned.

“Goodbye, Leorio,” you said, voice low. Your eyes danced red under the city lights.

“For now,” I assured.

“For now,” you answered.

The water has soaked my knees, my legs. Everywhere is cold. Which was better, the knowledge or the ignorance? The hopeless certainty or the shattering confusion?

I don’t know the answer. All I know is that I would do a “for now” a thousand, no, a million times over, if only to have that glowing embers of hope that I would see you again. I would call every week, every day, every hour, just to feel the anticipation that you could pick up, and I could hear your voice, your laugh. I would do anything for the warmth of a “maybe”, the burn of a “soon”. To feel that energy which hovered between us. The feeling of electricity, of static in the air before a storm, of the momentum which causes a wave to crash, the building of a crescendo. I would do anything, give anything, to have the uncertainty of an “almost” as opposed to the pain of a “never”. Because that's what you are now, Kurapika, a "never". 

I know now. I've figured it out. Why then, do I feel as if I've gone backwards, retreated into the dark, taken several steps backwards? I can't help but think I preferred my ignorance. The confusion held me, gave me the illusion of the "almost." The knowledge, the realisation, has now given me a "never". 

I would do anything, give anything, to have the uncertainty of an “almost” as opposed to the pain of a “never”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry lol you thought it was looking up haha it's not.


	9. Memory Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was so easy to believe that I deserved to have you, and that just because I wanted you to be around that I was owed that by the universe. That because I wanted something badly enough, it would happen. I should have remembered that this wasn’t the case, after Pietro, that wanting something badly enough won’t will it to existence. I thought I’d lost that part of myself, that child who lay underneath the stars with their best friend and thought they could touch the universe, that I could take fate and mould it how I see fit.

You arrived in the early morning.

I was startled awake by the sound of a knocking at the apartment door. Pulled from sleep, I blinked hazily, disorientated, for a moment wondering if I had imagined the sound. Then, it came again. Three sharp knocks. I grumbled, but pulled myself out of bed, wandered towards the front door, wondering who would be willing to bother me at such an early time, especially on a Saturday.

I shivered as I reached for the doorknob. The days had begun to warm again as Spring endured but the mornings remained chilled. I opened the door sharply, mouth already falling open to snap at whoever was standing on the other side. The words rapidly escaped me as I saw who was there.

Dressed all in black, your hair longer than I remembered, looking pale and exhausted. You stood before me, shoulder’s hunched, arms folded, eyes on my shoulder. You held in your hand a small bag. I stood there, for several moments, just staring.

“Kurapika,” I stuttered.

“Well?” you snapped. “Are you going to let me in? It’s cold out here.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, quickly stepping out of the way. You brushed past me, stood in the entranceway and surveyed the room. The bookcase to your left, the old couch and television set, the cramped kitchen. I stared at your back in shock, still drowsy from sleep. Was this a dream?

“Well this is quaint,” you observed.

That woke me up. I narrowed my eyes. “Was that supposed to be an insult?”

“Why?” you replied, turning to look at me. “It is quaint. It’s not a bad thing.” 

“You sounded very judgmental!”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Sure.”

We stared at each other. I was suddenly very aware of how little I was wearing. A loose singlet and boxers. My feet were bare. With you in that black suit, I felt virtually naked.

“Hold on,” I said. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.”

I turned and practically fled to the bedroom. Behind me, I heard you laugh softly. 

I quickly pulled on the nearest clothes I could find. I felt off-balance, like I was sleepwalking. Your sudden appearance had left me shaken, like usual. Ever since our meeting in the bar, I had been waiting to see you again, or at least to hear from you. All I had received was one text back. A lousy, “I’m alive,” when I had asked if you were dead. I was being sarcastic, but deep down I had begun to grow concerned. I went to the small hand mirror I had on my cabinet, ran a hand through my hair. 

Taking a deep breath, I re-entered the living room. You were sitting on the couch, back straight. You looked uncomfortable and out of place. Artificially polite.

“Hi,” I said.

You turned, looked me up and down. I felt myself go hot, like I could feel every part of my body at once. Was I dirty? Oh shit, I should have showered before coming back. No, too late for that now. Did my shirt have a stain on it?

“Hello,” you replied.

There was a beat of silence.

“You know, you’re being a terrible host,” you said.

“I just woke up!” I spluttered. “You caught me off guard.”

You shook your head, but you looked more amused than annoyed.

“Well, do you want something to drink? Tea, coffee? Anything to eat? I don’t have much but I’m sure-“

“Leorio,” you interrupted. A fond look had crossed your face, a slight upturn to your lips. It was then that I noticed just how tired you looked. The whites of your eyes were tinged red, your face dangerously pale. You looked like you could collapse at any moment. “Some tea would be fine.”

“Right,” I said. I went into the kitchen and quickly began preparing two mugs. “So, what’s been happening with you? Are you on a job?”

“I just finished one, actually,” you said. “I just needed-“ you stopped abruptly.

“Sorry? What did you say?” The hissing of the ketel was filling the room.

“Nothing.”

You were silent as I poured the boiling water into each of our mugs and brought them over to the couch. Sitting them on the small coffee table, I sat down next to you, making sure to leave a decent amount of space.

“Thank you,” you said.

It was then that I noticed the blood.

“Kurapika!” I reached forward, now ignoring the boundaries I had left. “What happened? Are you hurt?” I went to touch the side of your neck, where splatters of red seeped through the collar of your shirt. There was more along your shoulder, down the side of your arm. How had I not seen it? Your hair had been covering it, I think. That and I had been in such a state of shock and drowsiness that I hadn’t been paying attention. “Do you need bandages? Hold on, I’ll get the medical kit-“

“Leorio, no,” you said, grabbing my wrist before I could touch you. “I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches. I’ve already healed them.”

“Oh.” I deflated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” You were still holding my wrist. Your fingers were incredibly cold. I held back a shiver.

“You look exhausted,” I said.

“Well.” You dropped my wrist, then. I found myself mourning the sensation.

When you didn’t say anything more, I asked, “Would you like to take a shower? Or a bath? To wash away the blood, I mean.”

“You don’t have to do that-“

“No,” I said. “It’s alright. I would prefer if you had a bath, actually, so you don’t pass out while standing. Then, I want you to rest. Doctor’s orders.”

You smiled a bit, at that. “You’re not a doctor yet.”

“I will be soon, then you’ll have to do everything I say.”

“You wish.”

Another beat.

“Go on,” I said. “I’ll wait out here.”

“Okay.” You stood slowly and picked up your bag from where it was sitting on the ground.

“I’ll grab you a towel, hold on.”

You followed me down the hallway. I went into the small cabinet, pulled out a towel and a washer, pushed them into your arms.

“Thank you,” you said. We were standing close, the hallway being relatively narrow. You had to look up to see my face. There was a look in your eyes, one which I couldn’t decipher.

“You’re welcome,” I said with a smile.

There was another moment where we both just stood there, looking at each other.

I cleared my throat. “Go on then,”

“Okay,” You said, turning and entering the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

I felt myself exhale. God, you stressed me out. Every moment between us held this energy I couldn’t describe. It was exhausting just talking to you. Asking you questions only to have you avoid them. Everything was such a mission.

I went and sat back down on the couch, stirred my tea. What was I going to do with you? Were you staying long? I hoped you were. I was meant to be going out to the field today, to meet my teacher. In the other room, I heard the tap turn on and the sound of running water. I wish I had gone grocery shopping. I had hardly any food left in the apartment. You looked like you could do with a good meal. You must not have been eating right, along with sleeping. How were you still standing?

I drank my tea for several minutes, just sitting and thinking. Then, after I had finished, I rose and began tidying a few things around the apartment, putting away loose papers, stacking textbooks I had laying around, washing dirty dishes.

After a while, I heard the bathroom door open and the soft padding of bare feet. I turned to see you standing in the hallway entrance, bag in one hand, suit hanging over your arm. Your hair was damp, dripping water onto your shoulders. You were wearing a loose long-sleeve t-shirt and pants.

I must have been staring because you cleared your throat, shuffling awkwardly.

“Feeling any better?” I asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Your tea has gone cold,” I said. “I’ll make you another.”

“Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me," I said. "It’s all good.”

“Okay.” You took a seat on the couch once more. You still looked uncomfortable, sitting too straight.

“Relax,” I said, watching you from the kitchen as I boiled more water. “Would you like to take a nap? I’ve got to go out this afternoon for Nen training, but you don’t have to come. You can rest-“

“Can I come?” you asked.

I blinked. “Are you sure? You can rest here-“

“I would like to see how your Nen is doing.”

“I mean, if you would like…”

I filled your mug with water and brought it to the couch, sitting down beside you once more. You smelt fresh, the sharp natural smell you carried clouding my senses. You weren’t looking at me, but down at your hands which were folded in your lap.

“Hey,” I said. I wanted to reach forward and touch your arm, but I stopped myself. You weren't wearing your chains, I realised. It was nice, seeing you without them. “What’s up?”

You exhaled softly. Still not looking at me, you said, “I need to tell you something.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. Where was this going? I felt myself start to panic. Something had happened. This was it. The last time I would see you. You were about to tell me that you were leaving for good.

As if sensing my panic, you quickly reassured me. “No, it’s nothing bad, it’s just…” You trailed off again.

“What is it?” I said, scooting closer on the couch. Our thighs brushed. You still weren’t looking at me. “You can trust me, Kurapika, you know that.”

“I do,” you replied. “It’s just that this is a sensitive area for me. I don’t want you to think of me differently, or think that I’ve been lying to you, or that I don’t trust you, because I do. I know I’m not very good at showing it-“

“Kurapika,” I interrupted. “It’s okay. What is it?”

You took a shuddering breath, looked up at my face, steadying yourself. I felt like I couldn’t breathe with your gaze locked with mine, waiting, for something, though I didn’t know what.

“I’m transgender,” you said. “Which means-“

“What?” I said.

You moved away, suddenly scared. “Leorio, I’m sorry-“

“Wait, no,” I quickly backtracked, laughed suddenly, relieved. “Oh my god, I thought you were going to tell me something terrible. You scared me. Kurapika, I know what transgender means. Why would you be worried about something like that?”

You stopped, confused. “Wait, so you aren’t angry?”

“Why would I be angry? God, Kurapika, I thought you were about to tell me you would never be seeing me again. What a relief.”

Slowly, I watch your shoulders loosen, your body slump with relief. You lean towards me, back into the couch. “I don’t know. I thought you would think I was pretending to be something I’m not. I’m always afraid people will think I’m lying to them.”

“You’re not lying,” I said. “If you’re a boy, then you’re a boy. It’s that simple to me.”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“Wait,” I remembered something, suddenly. “But I’ve seen you dress as a girl before. Does that bother you?”

You shrugged. “Not really. It’s a disguise. It’s not really me. I’m choosing to dress up like that for missions, so it doesn’t bother me. And in Kurta culture we didn’t have such binary gender roles. Men wore ‘feminine’ clothing and women would sometimes wear ‘masculine’ clothing. It just wasn’t as important as it is in most other places.”

“Huh. That’s interesting,” I pondered. “Your culture sounds so fascinating,”

I felt your gaze on the side of my face and I turned to look at you.

“Thank you,” you said.

I felt myself blush. “What for? I told you, stop thanking me for everything. It’s alright.”

You nodded, but you were smiling. It was small, but it was there.

“How about you have a nap, okay?” I said. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.”

“Okay.”

I got up and went into the bedroom, grabbed you a pillow and a blanket, and brought them out into the living room.

“Here,” I said, setting you up. “Now rest. I demand it. No excuses.”

“Yes, Doctor Leorio.”

“No sarcasm.”

“I wasn’t, I swear.”

“Sure, sure.”

“You’ll wake me up?”

“Yup. Now sleep. I’ll be studying in my room.”

“Okay.”

I chuckled as I watched you drape the blanket over your body. I stood there for a moment, looking at the shape of your body, the gentle rise and fall of your breathing. You were okay. Alive. You were here. That’s all that mattered.

I felt warm, sitting at my desk and looking over my notes. The secret you shared with me, that sign of trust. I held it close my heart, let it heat my insides. It was almost euphoric, that sensation of having your vulnerability. Usually, being around you felt like having a knife pressed to my throat. The threat that at any moment, with any movement, things could go horribly wrong. I felt one step closer to understanding you, one step closer to peeling away those layers you hide yourself beneath.

Now, that warmth has disappeared. I sit at my desk and feel cold. I was in love with you then, am in love with you now. What would I have done, if I knew differently, back then? Would I have told you, shared my own secret with you, let myself be vulnerable, peeled away my own skin, let you see inside of me? Or would I have bluffed, skirted around the edges, like I did at every opportunity that we were together? Hardly ever saying what we meant. This feeling between us that I ignored, that I was so artificially blind to, as if I was unwilling to accept it, shrouded in some deep-hidden fear that if I acknowledged it then it would leave me, the same way Pietro left me, and that I would be powerless to stop it.

“You’re my best friend,” I’d told Pietro.

“I’m in love with you,” I could have, should have, told you.

It was so easy to believe that I deserved to have you, and that just because I wanted you to be around that I was owed that by the universe. That because I wanted something badly enough, it would happen. I should have remembered that this wasn’t the case, after Pietro, that wanting something badly enough won’t will it to existence. I thought I’d lost that part of myself, that child who lay underneath the stars with their best friend and thought they could touch the universe, that I could take fate and mould it how I see fit. I thought I was done with that but I let myself believe that because I wanted you enough I could have you, keep you here with me forever.

If I could, I’d take that warmth I felt that morning sitting at my desk and hold it here forever. I’d live in that single moment for the rest of my life. Ever since I was a child I have longed for change. Pietro and I would dream of a day where we would make our wildest goals come true, where we would grow older and make all the money in the world, transform our lives, never stopping, moving into the night, touching the stars with our tiny fingers. All my life I have detested permanence, but now I long for it. A hunger which grows in the shape of a blond boy lying under the blanket in the living room. A ravenous feeling which has grown to define me. I am consumed by it, consumed by you, but not in the way I imagined.

Sadly, and with more than a little disappointment, it is not at all the euphoric experience I had once fantasised it to be. I had once longed for consumption. Now I simply long for a good nights sleep.

Funny, how our priorities change. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not transgender so I hope this is an okay representation... I am gay though so I based this off of my coming out situation kind of. Also, Leorio is 100% the type of guy who would respect your pronouns. He's a bit of a pervert but he respects the LGBTQ and I live by that. Also I wrote a little phrase in the opening chapter which kind of made it seem like Kurapika had never been to Leorio's apartment which is dumb because I knew this part was coming when I wrote that so who knows what I was thinking. I'm going to go back and edit that bit out so ignore that please. Also I cannot stop writing this story and I will not be stopped.


	10. Memory Part 1 (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is all a reconstruction. I shouldn’t invent these things when you’re not here to defend yourself.

I’ll tell you a secret.

I may have changed things, a little. That conversation on the couch, the one where you told me your secret. I imagine it differently to how it really played out. I think I’ve made you kinder than how you really were, made you seem more vulnerable, the interaction more intimate. This longing has coloured you in softer tones. My memory is a mosaic of my own construction, pieced together by my love and adoration. Fragments of you shine through, but much is lost amongst the second-hand denial and grief.

This is really how it went:

You sat on the couch after your bath, hair dripping, back straight and filled with tension.

I filled your mug with water and placed in it a teabag, brought it to you and sat beside you once more. You smelt fresh, the sharp natural smell you carried clouding my senses. You weren’t looking at me but down at your hands clutched together in your lap.

“Hey,” I said. I wanted to reach forward and touch your arm, but I stopped myself. Your chains glinted in the light. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you snapped.

I sighed. “Kurapika, what’s going on? No need to have an attitude with me.”

“Why do you care?”

“Excuse me?” I said. You refused to look at me. I felt anger stir, my face flushing with the usual heat which accompanied our bickering. “You’re the one who turned up at my apartment unannounced. Now you’re suddenly mad at asking me why you seem so upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Sure,” I replied sarcastically. “That’s why you’re suddenly all closed-off and snappish.” When you refused to say anything more, I continued. “God, you’re difficult.”

“Sorry?” You turned, then, glaring at the side of my face. I could feel the tension mounting, could almost feel the swirl of heavy downpour and wind, the rocking of the boat beneath our feet.

“What?” I said. “You are!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me!”

“No!”

I brought a hand to my forehead, rubbing my brow. It was like dealing with a child but I didn’t want to push it. I was angry, but deep down I was also scared. Scared that you would up and leave, and I wouldn’t hear from you again. Scared that if I pushed you too far you would run away.

“Fine,” I said, standing. “Don’t talk to me. How about you rest here until it’s time to go. I’ll be in my room studying.”

I went to leave, made it as far as the entrance to the hallway when I heard you call out softly: “Wait.”

I paused, hovering at the doorway. “What is it?”

“I-“ You cut off. I stood there, frozen, holding my breath, waiting. “I was just thinking- when I was in the bath- about.... things. ”

I waited.

I heard you exhale. “Melody has been telling me that I need to talk to you more, you know, about myself and what’s going on. She says that you’ll be fine with it…”

“I’m confused,” I said. I turned around and regarded the back of your head. “But you know you can tell me anything, right? You can trust me.”

“I know I can.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because it’s hard!” You stood and whipped around to face me, fists clenched and eyes narrowed, on the attack once again.

“There’s no need to get angry with me!” I snapped back. God, I shouldn't have kept reacting like that. Whenever you got mad with me, I fired back equally as hard. Each pushing each other over the edge, unwilling to budge. I could practically feel the knife in my grip, the wetness of the rain sliding down my cheek. “Just tell me!”

“I don’t have to tell you anything!”

“What are you talking about?” My fingers found my hair and I tugged on it in exasperation. “Just a second ago you were saying that I would be fine with it. I don’t understand, just tell me.”

I was starting to panic, a little. My breathing was growing harsher. Something had happened. This was it. The last time I would see you. You were leaving for good, this time.

“If you’re leaving then just tell me,” I said. 

That caught you off guard and you reeled back. “What? That’s not what I mean.”

“So, you’re not cutting me off-?”

“No!”

“- because that’s what it sounds like. I should have expected this. You’re too busy for me, it’s okay, but I should have seen it coming-“

“Leorio!” You interrupted. “It’s not that! I just wanted to tell you that I’m transgender!”

I closed my mouth with a snap. I blinked, shocked. You were breathing heavily, eyes flickering across my face, body still and full of tension. The silence rang through the space between us.

“What?” I said.

“Transgender,” you repeated. “It means-“

“Oh my god,” I said. A laugh escaped me suddenly, a suddenly expel of air. I almost slumped with relief. “I thought it was going to be something terrible. You scared me. Honestly, why would you be worried about telling me something like that?”

“I wasn’t worried.” You looked away, down at your feet.

“Sure,” I said. “Wow, I really thought you were cutting me off for good. I’m so relieved.”

You shuffled in place. “I wouldn't do that.”

For a moment we just stood there, looking at each other.

“How about you take a nap, okay?” I said. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time to leave.”

“Fine,” you replied.

I set you up on the couch. “I’ll be in my room studying,” I said, turning to leave.

“Leorio?”

I looked back. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.” You were looking up at me, damp hair around your hair like a golden halo.

“Stop thanking me,” I replied. “I told you, it’s all good.”

I went to leave again but paused. I turned back around. “Thank you for telling me,” I said softly.

I watched you smile, almost shyly. “Stop thanking me. I told you it’s all good.” 

You looked so beautiful laying there. I wanted to reach out and stroke the hair away from your face, feel the soft skin on your cheeks. You looked peaceful, a small smile pulling at your lips. 

No, no, no. I’m doing it again. I’m romanticising you in my memory, creating an image of you which is easier to bear. I can’t help but make you seem like this. Sweet and shy, a blush on your cheeks. This is all a reconstruction. 

There will always be moments that I forget, fragments which I invent to fit the narrative I crave. Colours and scents and tastes which I cannot possibly recall. I shouldn’t invent these things when you’re not here to defend yourself. 

You were meaner than I like to remember. I was probably meaner too. I said things that I regret. I replay them in my mind and the guilt forces me to change them to ease my own pain. I make you kinder, make you more innocent, make you look as though you held tenderness for me behind those fiery eyes. I thanked you for telling me your secret, but I cannot pretend that you told me out of any care or trust. It was probably all some tactical decision, some part of your master plan. What I would give to take a look inside that head of yours. Open up your mind and take a look around. I’d dissect it and lay it out under the microscope. Then, maybe, I’d finally understand.

I conduct these autopsies on my memories so that I can better tell the truth, but in the end, what does it really matter? No one is here to listen. I can make it all up if I want. Who is to say differently? You are my only witness and you’re no longer here to give your testimony. I could just as easily say that when I lay that blanket over you on the couch that you reached up and took a hold of my wrist, pulled me down and pressed your lips against mine. I could just as easily claim that you tugged me down on top of you, that you bit into my bottom lip, your hand resting against my cheek, my hair in your damp hair. If I walked outside and screamed it to the world, who would argue with me? Who is to say differently, what happened? What’s so bad about imagining these things when there is no one left to dispute it?

This madness walks journeys across my mind, polluting everything it touches, but I digress. I'll keep going. There is more to this story, after all.


	11. Memory Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I would think please don’t leave, just yet, stay a little longer. Don’t go and leave behind nothing but a memory. Don’t rush, take your time. Rest here with me. Leave something behind, when you do go. Give me your earing, or your suit jacket, just so that you have an excuse to come back and collect it, so that we can lengthen these moments just a little more, spend just a little more time together, please.

In the afternoon I took you to the clearing to meet my teacher.

There was a storm brewing. I could taste the electricity on my tongue and feel the static which hung in the air. As soon as we started walking, I began to sweat, beads of moisture soon rolling down my back and soaking through my t-shirt.

You appeared unbothered wearing your white Kurta tracksuit. Just seeing it made me feel nostalgic. Colour had returned to your cheeks and you no longer looked like you were about to collapse. I’d woken you up with a plate of eggs and toast.

“Sorry it’s not much,” I’d said to you, hand on the back of my neck. “I really need to go grocery shopping.”

You didn’t mind. You ate the food slowly, watching as I did aimless tasks around the apartment. You looked better. Calmer. More relaxed.

Walking beside me, I watched as you surveyed the surrounding buildings. I decided that I should just get the questions over and done with there.

“So,” I said, aiming for casual, “not to sound unappreciative, but what exactly are you doing here?”

“I told you,” you replied, not looking at me. “I just finished a job.”

“And you just decided to pop in?”

“What?” you said. “Would you like me to leave?”

“No, no,” I said quickly, waving my hands. “Um, what was the job, exactly?”

You turned sharply; eyes narrowed. “Don’t ask me that.”

I gulped. “Okay, sorry.”

You sighed. “You know I can’t answer those questions. I can’t put you at any more risk. It’s bad enough that I’m here visiting, but I promised that I would see you soon.”

“You sure did,” I forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “And you also said you would answer more of my texts. You only answered one!”

“I never said that,” you replied.

“Yes, you did. I remember.”

“I certainly did not.”

“You and your selective memory. You only remember what you want to so that it fits your argument. You definitely said you would answer my texts-“

“Oh look,” you interrupted, pointing ahead, “Are we here?”

I frowned, annoyed at the obvious change in subject. But you were right, we had arrived at the end of the street. The long grass stretched ahead of us, a sea of green and yellow against a dark grey sky.

“A field?” you remarked. “Interesting choice.”

“Again, with the judgement,” I replied. “Where else am I meant to practice without people seeing?”

“I wasn’t judging.”

“You certainly have a way of sounding like you are.”

You huffed, folding your arms. We approached the grass, winding our way through. I watched you from the corner of my eye.

“I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do,” you said. “Especially that punching technique you used on Ging.”

“You know about that?” I asked, bewildered.

“Of course. I watched the recording.”

I instantly blushed, remembering the embarrassing things I said during my speech. “Yeah, well, that’s the best I’ve been able to achieve. I was so angry that it kind of just…happened. Believe me, I have a lot more trouble using Remote Punch usually.”

"'Remote Punch?’ How creative.”

We emerged into the clearing and I whipped around to glare at you. “One more sarcastic remark and I may be forced to fight you.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Says the man who just admitted that they have trouble with their Hatsu.”

“Yeah, and the last man who tested me saw it work very effectively, so I’d watch your mouth if I were you.”

“Make me.”

“I _said_ don't test me-“

“Well, this is interesting.”

I jumped, startled, as my teacher emerged from the grass to our right. He wore an amused expression, eyes flickering to where you stood. I watched his gaze zone in on the chains on your hand.

“I brought my friend,” I said to him, suddenly feeling nervous and more than a bit awkward that he had caught us arguing. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course,” replied my teacher. “Chains… interesting. Are you a Manipulator or a Conjurer?” he asked you.

“That’s none of your business,” you answered curtly.

“Kurapika-“

“It’s okay,” said my teacher, chuckling. “Fiery, aren’t you? You’re young, but I can tell that you have a lot of strength. Your Nen appears to be quite powerful. Maybe you will be able to get some answers out of my student. He is struggling to put any direction into his Hatsu.”

“Is that so?” you said, turning to look at me, eyes glinting with satisfaction.

“We’re not all geniuses like you,” I grumbled, feeling slightly attacked. I should have known that you would both gang up against me.

“I’m hardly-“

“You learnt Nen in six months,” I interrupted, “and you’ve somehow managed to be both a Specialist and a Conjurer. I’m still not sure how that even works.”

“ _Leorio_ ,” you said in warning, eyes darting towards where my teacher stood, watching the interaction with clear amusement. “Also, I _clearly_ remember explaining it very simply to you in York New. It’s not my fault your too incompetent to understand.”

“Do you _want_ to fight?” I said, taking a step closer. My fists were clenched by my sides and I could feel the swirl of my aura intensify. It was that same sensation I experienced standing before Ging during the election. A static which crackled around my hands, waiting to be released. Except that not even Ging could anger me this easily. This was just ordinary bickering and yet I could feel my breathing quicken, the tension filling the air. Overhead, the sky darkened, storm clouds rolling in, the taste of electricity lying flat on my tongue.

“I’m not fighting anyone who can’t even use Hatsu,” you replied. You turned fully to face me, feet apart, chained hand hanging by your side. Your eyes almost appeared to glow as they glared at me.

“ _That’s it!_ ” I cried. My aura swelled around my fist, sizzling and popping in an array of yellow and blue. I reared back the same way I had done during the election, imaging my fist flying out from the dirt beneath your feet. A black swirl of energy opened, and my fist sunk into the cool pool of aura. I watched as it reappeared a few metres away, just in front of where you stood. Your eyes widened as you watched my fist fly up from the ground, propelling towards your face. Just before my hand connected with your jaw, you stumbled to the right, rolling in the dirt and missing my fist by a second. You whipped around to face me, eyes wide, chains spilling out from your sleeve.

“Oh no, you don’t!” I yelled, jumping back. “You can’t use Emperor Time. That’s cheating!”

“How is that cheating?” you said, standing and brushing dust from your slacks. “Anyway, as if I would waste it on _you._ ”

A growl tore from my throat in response and I charged back towards you. Your eyes widened in surprise and you quickly threw your chains forward. I jumped to the side quickly, watching as they hit the ground with a bang. Dust flew into the air.

Quick! I hit the ground once more, using the dust as cover. I watched as my fist flew at you again from the side. You narrowly avoided it, rolling across the ground. You sent your chain flying again, this time at my head. I ducked just in time. Damn, those things were fast. This was the first time I had seen them being used like this and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit awed.

There was another bang as your chain hit the ground behind me and I used it as an opportunity to charge at you once again. I made it a few metres before you sent it out again, flying toward me from the right-hand side. I hit the ground, letting my hand go through the pool of black, this time aiming for your other side, the one without the chains. Hopefully, you wouldn’t be prepared for an attack there, that side being lightly less balanced. 

This time I almost managed to hit you, but you were- as always- prepared. You stumbled backwards, jumping into the air and flipping so that you were standing once again. You brushed yourself off, looking unbothered. I swore as I scrambled to my feet.

“Nice try,” you said.

“I almost got you that time,” I replied.

“Hardly.”

Thunder boomed overhead. A sudden gust of wind tore through the clearing, rustling the long grass. We both looked up at the now almost pitch-black sky.

“I think it’s going to rain,” observed my teacher. We both snapped to look at him. I’d forgotten he was even there. 

The old man walked forward; arms clasped behind his back. He was looking very amused now, a thin smile pulling at his lips. “That was very interesting to watch,” he said. “Thank you, Kurapika. I haven’t gotten him to use his Hatsu that effectively in a long time. It seems to me that his ability is directly linked to his emotions. This is very useful.”

I blinked, breathing heavily, the adrenaline still roaring in my ears. “My emotions?” I said.

“Hmmm,” pondered the old man. “Well, I think that will be all for today. I’ll see you next week, Leorio. It was nice to meet you, Kurapika.”

I watched as you nodded weakly, eyes wide. My teacher chuckled as he looked between us once more before turning and disappearing back into the long grass. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

For a moment we stood there in numb silence.

“Um,” I said intelligently, rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly.

“I told you it would be a good idea if I came,” you said. Your chains had one again disappeared back into your sleeves, only the rings around your hand visible now.

“A good idea?” I spluttered. “All we did was fight!”

“Yes. And it worked. You used your Hatsu quite well.”

“You little-“ I said, clenching my hands. “You did that on purpose!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you replied innocently, but you were smiling. It was the first proper smile I had seen you wear since arriving. It was warm and bright, filling up your face and making you look suddenly so much younger, an image of that boy who had walked through the forest with me during the Hunter Exam, eyes glittering in the pools of sunlight which fell between the foliage. In an instant, my anger evaporated. I stood there and stared, breathless. I’d missed this. You were so serious, these days, and not the same amount of seriousness you used to possess back during the exam, but a deeper, older feeling which made you seem so stiff and resigned. With that smile, you looked like your old self, and all I could do was stand and stare.

Another clap of thunder rang overhead.

“We better get going before it starts to rain," you said. Just as the words left your mouth droplets began to hit the earth, growing quickly heavier.

“Let’s go!” I said. 

We turned and ran through the long grass, weaving between the reeds as the wind blew and rain pelted down from the sky. I almost fell at one point, slipping in the now wet dirt. I heard you laugh beside me, a beautiful sound which warmed my insides. A glanced to the side and I saw that you were grinning, a child-like euphoria glowing across your features. I couldn’t help but laugh as well and soon we were both howling with it, racing through the long grass with our arms outstretched, hands brushing through the reeds, our previous fight now forgotten. We made it to the edge and continued through the streets, pushing at each other like children. In that moment I had never felt so free, so weightless. I felt 10 years old again, sprinting along the shore with Pietro by my side, for a moment my worries erased, just me and you and the sky, flying through a cool dream made of dark skies and the gradual flickering of lights switching on in the houses we pass.

At one point I saw you turn your head and look at me. In that moment I knew that you were free, just for a moment, from the weight you carried.

“This is ridiculous!” you shouted.

“Yep!” I yelled back. We simply laughed harder.

If I were there now, running beside you, I would turn and grab your shoulders, press you against the nearest wall. You would stare into my face with parted lips and blazing eyes and I would watch the rainwater slide down your face, the moisture hanging onto your eyelids. We would feel that single moment of breathlessness where we were both waiting for the next movement. That moment where static hung in the air and we both glanced at each other’s lips, waiting for the wave to break, the moment of no return. Then I would lean forward and press my lips to yours, taste the rainwater on your mouth, feel your desperate sigh, the sigh which said _finally_ , because this is what we have both been waiting for. Your hands would find my face, the cold metal of your chained hand against my cheek. I’d bury my hands in your wet hair and pull, listen to you gasp, taste the inside of your mouth. Around us the street would grow darker, the lights of the houses turning on one-by-one. I’d inhale that fresh scent you held, let it consume me. The wind would be howling, and it would be cold, but my body would feel warm pressed against yours. I’d stand here with you and we’d breathe together, not speaking, the words we want to say hovering in the air between our bodies, you and me, me and you, together.

We made it back to my apartment drenched and still laughing. I let you inside and we leant against the door, shoulder’s brushing. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“We should get changed,” I said. “We’re both soaked through.”

“I didn’t bring any other clothes,” you said. “And I really don’t want to put my suit back on.”

“You can borrow something of mine,” I told you. I went into the bedroom and brought you out some sweatpants, a t-shirt and a sweater. “They’ll be too big, but it’s the best I can do.”

“Thank you,” you said, taking them from me. Our fingers brushed and I held back a shiver. Your wet hair hung over your eyes. Your skin was flushed. You looked so alive, a heavy contrast to the boy who stood before me that morning in my doorway, who looked moments away from collapse.

You went into the bathroom and I quickly got changed in my room. I walked out into the kitchen and boiled the kettle, making us both a cup of tea before I sat back on the couch. The rain pelted against the windows and the wind screamed. A strike of lightning cracked, casting a shadow on the opposite wall.

I heard the bathroom door open and listened as you made your way towards me. You took a seat on the couch, lent back on the cushion, your hair fanning out around your head. You turned to face me, and I mirrored the movement, pulling my legs up underneath me.

“I have to leave tomorrow,” you said. “But not until the evening.”

I felt instantly crushed. For a moment I had forgotten that this wasn’t permanent. I had felt, for a moment, the two of us running through the rain, that we would have longer. That we would have forever. The real world was creeping back in, disrupting our fantasy.

“Tomorrow is the anniversary,” you whispered. Your hand found my ankle. It lay against the skin, stroked over the bone. “It’s the anniversary of my clan’s massacre.”

“Kurapika,” I said.

“That’s why I came,” you continued. “I just couldn’t be alone this year.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

“Usually I find the nearest park and just sit there all day,” you replied. “It reminds me of when Pairo and I would sit and collect flowers. We would play this silly game where we would pick the petals of the flowers and talk about the cute boys or girls in the village. ‘He loves me, he loves me not,’ and on and on until we had no petals left.” You sighed, eyes downcast and gaze far away. “The flowers always make me feel closer to home.”

“We can go to the park,” I said. “I’ll take you there. I’ll come too if you don’t want to be alone.”

You glanced up and into my face. We were so close. I could count your eyelashes. “That would be nice,” you whispered.

Tomorrow, we would go into town. We would sit on the grass and you would look at the flowers. I would bring some food and I would try to get you to eat it. You would tell me the occasional story about your village but mostly we would be silent. We would bicker now and again, as was inevitable with us. You’d pick the petals of the flower and we’d play that game with each other in mind. A secret which we held. Or at least, I would think about you. He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me… Then, after the sun had begun to set, we would go back to my apartment. You would put your suit back on and collect your bag. You would stand at the door and tell me goodbye, that you would see me again soon. And I would think please don’t leave, just yet, stay a little longer. Don’t go and leave behind nothing but a memory. Don’t rush, take your time. Rest here with me. Leave something behind, when you do go. Give me your earing, or your suit jacket, just so that you have an excuse to come back and collect it, so that we can lengthen these moments just a little more, spend just a little more time together, please.

The actual time we spent together was so small, but these memories seem like they go on for years. We have only one photo together. I have but one of your possessions, a soap bottle which sits in my bathroom cabinet. Our time together was so small, and we have so little to show of it. Our time together is not stored in these physical items but in tiny fragments, certain times of day, in rain which runs its fingers down panes of glass, in the smell of soil and in the taste of tea on your tongue. It consists of a childlike afternoon where we ran through the long grass and felt the rain hit our skin, our laughs mixing with the howl of the wind and our arms outstretches, fingers brushing.

Tomorrow you would leave, and I would be left with only the conversations we shared, the little pieces of yourself that you gave me to keep. You beside me on the couch, the two of us slowly falling asleep to the sound of the rain and wind. Your head falling onto my leg, or was it my lap? Or did you stay as you were, head beside mine, the room gradually growing darker, the two of us too tired to get up and turn on the lights, the sweet taste of our conversation still settling in the air? 

I hope you understood, fuck, I hoped you understood just how much how those little talks meant to me, still mean to me, how I can’t stop thinking about them, repeating the words you said, over and over until I can no longer remember properly what was real and what is now fantasy. Your hand on my ankle. The stroke of your thumb against my skin. Over and over. Everything fades away. I wish it would be like this, forever.


	12. Hometown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I still want you. I want you next to me, here, at this kitchen table, the sweat dripping down our backs, the buzz of flys outside the window and the horizon swimming in the distance. I want you here, listening to my grandmother’s stories, laughing nervously to my mother’s questions. I miss your laugh. I would give anything, everything, to hear that laugh again. I wish you were here. I don’t think I will ever stop wishing that.

Returning home feels like being wrapped up in a comforting embrace.

I stand at the bottom of the steps leading up to my childhood home. I can see the living room through the window and I glimpse slight movement as my sister moves between it and the kitchen. The front of the house has been repainted since I was last here. I wonder who did it. My mother must have recruited some young man from in town. Someone too shy or kind to say no.

I walk up the steps and knock on the door. Three sharp raps of my knuckles against the flimsy wood. I hear a cry from inside- my mother- and quick footsteps. I prepare myself, place my mask in place, the one which says I’m happy and excited to be home. The door flies open, and I’m pulled into an embrace.

“Leorio, my darling, you’re here!”

“Sorry I’m late, Mama,” I say with a thin smile. I have to crouch down to let her wrap around my shoulders. Her scent, a mix of her floral perfume and flour, floods my nose. She never used to wear perfume back when I was a child. It was too expensive. It was one of the things I had started buying her after I started making a little money. Every year for her birthday I buy the same one. Every year she acts surprised and wraps me in a hug, thanking me over and over. If I’m not able to see her I find a way to get it to her and she calls me every time to thank me.

“Leorio? Is that you?” My sister’s voice floats down the hall. I look up from my mother’s shoulder and see her walking towards me. She’s cut her hair and it now brushes against her collar bones. It’s nice, makes her seem more sophisticated.

“Nice haircut, Mi,” I tell her, pulling away from my mother’s hold. “You finally look your age.”

“Like you can talk!” she retorts, but she’s smiling. Her dark eyes shine. It’s been a while since we last saw each other. She’s wearing a yellow sundress, knee-length. She pulls me into an embrace which lasts only a moment before she’s twisting my ear between her fingers. “Are you sure you’re not getting taller?”

“Ow, ow, ow, let go!” I scramble out of her hold. “And no! It would be physically impossible to keep growing at my age.”

“Upwards maybe,” she says, looking me up and down, “but certainly not outwards.”

“Hey, you two,” my mother interrupts before I can form a reply. “I don’t want any arguing. Come and say hello to your grandmother, Leorio, she’s excited to see you.”

“I bet,” I grumble. Mirella takes my luggage after one last attempt to twist my ear again, but this time I doge.

“Can’t get me again,” I say. “Not with these Hunter reflexes.”

“Leorio!”

“Sorry, sorry.”

I make my way down the hall, resisting the urge to reach out and brush my fingers along the wallpaper, the sweet touch of nostalgia. Being back here makes me want to touch everything and feel its texture, just to have a taste of my childhood once more. I take a moment to glance at the photograph on the wall. My entire family stands together. My mother and sister are side-by-side with their matching eyes and smiles. Then there's a younger version of myself, a spitting image of my father. Despite our similar looks, we couldn't have been more different in personality. My father was a quiet man. He rarely spoke, too used to being yelled over by the rest of the family, myself included. I can’t help but wonder what he would think of me now if he were still here. Would he be proud?

I enter the living room, inhale that familiar scent which is so hard to describe but which defines my childhood. The smell of something cooking on the stove, the dry scent of earth and grass which floats in through the open window, the weight of summer heat which settles into the old carpet and sits on every surface. The room is old-fashioned and needs refurbishing, but my grandmother and mother would never agree to it.

“Leorio, darling,” says my grandmother from where she sits in her usual chair. “Come and give your Nonna a kiss.”

“Of course,” I say, bending low to give her an embrace. She looks the same as I remember, not a day older than seventy. Her tan skin looks healthy for her age and her hair is still long and thick, tied into a plat which falls across her shoulders. She still smells like herbal tea and sweets. She takes my hand and pats it. Her nails are painted their usual red, her favourite colour.

“Take a seat, darling, and tell me about your studies,” she says. Behind me in the kitchen, my mother hums in agreement.

“Yes, Leorio, please tell us everything. We are desperate to hear about how it’s all going.”

“School is good,” I say. “The usual, I guess. I just finished my exams for the semester, as you would probably know.”

“Yes? And how were they?” asks my grandmother.

“They went well.” A lie. It’s doubtful that I passed most of them. I can’t remember the papers, can’t remember studying, can’t remember the past week at all. Everything has been washed away, the colours turning into pastels as everything loses its vibrance or purpose. Ever since I had that realisation kneeling on the bathroom floor my world has turned so dry and pointless.

It’s humiliating, how long it took for everything to click into place. Now, it’s all I can think about. I feel like I’m falling in love all over again, except this time I’m aware it’s happening. Except this time, I’m falling in love over memories, not real experiences. Everything has changed its hues in my mind and I find that I’m replaying everything from a new perspective.

“And what about that young lady you were seeing?” says my mother. I can hear the sound of the knife on the cutting board. The sharp _click, click, click_ of rapid-fire vegetable cutting. It beats in time to the ticking of my grandfather’s clock sitting on the table. “What was her name again?”

“Analise, wasn’t it?” my sister pipes in as she returns from the bedroom. She joins my mother in the kitchen.

“No,” I say. “Analise is my friend. It was Hanako.”

“Hanako, yes, and what happened to her?”

“We broke up ages ago.” Over a year. Has it really been that long since I was last here?

“What a shame. She sounded like such a sweet girl.” My grandmother sighs, as if I had told her some terrible tragedy had occurred. “You know, Leorio, I really hope to see you settled down soon. Look at your sister. Single, at her age. What a shame. I want to see you with a nice young girl. You know at your age I was already married, and I was about to have your mother’s sister…”

“Enough of that Nonna,” interrupts Mirella. “He’s a busy med student. He doesn’t have time for a relationship.”

“Nonsense! Your grandfather worked hard every day of his life and still had time for me, your mother and her sisters. Did you know that he used to work every day of the week down at those docks, and long days too? He used to get up before sunrise and work until dark-“

I let her talk. Sometimes it’s best to just nod and smile, to agree to everything she says. She never listens if I contradict her. She’s been telling for years that I need to settle down. To her, life is about ‘settling down’. I’ve never seen the appeal. Sure, someday I planned to find a girl to marry, to have kids, but it was a distant and far away concept, something I was never sure would come to reality. My focus had always been on my dream, on the Hunter Exam, on medical school and becoming a doctor. Love had never been in the foreground of my mind. Until you. Until now.

I wonder what it would have been like, to bring you home with me.

What would Nonna say? My mother? They would be shocked, that’s for sure. A boy? They would gasp. But Leorio, I thought you liked women? I do, Mamma, but I also like him. They probably wouldn’t understand it. I hardly do myself, but I’ve accepted it as just another facet of my life. If you had told me years ago that I would fall in love with a man I would have laughed. But now it seems so irrelevant, that fact. It was the least interesting thing about our relationship, the fact that we were the same gender. Your life was so crazy, so insane, our relationship founded on such strange circumstances that it seems so hilarious to think that something like that could come between us.

Of course, I’m considering this under the assumption that you felt the same way. It’s been a bit of a problem, assuming you loved me too. But it doesn’t really matter, in the end, how you felt. It’s not like you’re here to bring it to fruition.

You probably would have got on with Mirella. You both like to make fun of me. I can almost imagine the two of you at the dining table, taunting me back and forth.

“Does he have such bad manners when he’s around you?” Mirella would ask.

“Hey!”

“Of course,” you would reply, the both of you ignoring me. I could see you sitting to my left, hands folded on the table, posture perfect as always. You would blow them away with your manners, that’s for sure. Nonna would approve. “He refuses to use proper etiquette when we eat out. The amount of times he’s spilled my drink and almost set our tablecloth on fire is too many to count.”

“That’s not true!”

“I can imagine,” my sister would reply, smirking. “And is he still just as messy? I used to ban him from coming over onto my side of the room when we were young, just because I knew he would make it dirty.”

“Oh yes. It’s impossible to get him to remember to clean up after himself at all.”

Mirella would laugh and you would smile as I tried to defend myself. I wouldn’t really be offended. I’d be secretly happy that the two of you were getting along. Underneath the table, your hand would settle on my thigh. You’d glance at me, offer me a secret look, that language that only we understood. The language shared between lovers.

“Leorio?”

I blink, shake my head as if I were trying to rid flies from my face. “Huh?”

“You seem exhausted,” says my mother. She’s pulling out dishes from the cabinet, crouching and giving me a stern but also concerned look. “Have you been sleeping well? I hope you haven’t been staying up all night studying. I’ve told you how bad that is for your health.”

“I’m fine, Mama,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m just a bit run down from travelling, is all.”

She hums, not convinced, but prepared to leave it. “Will you help set the table? Lunch should be ready soon.”

“Sure.”

I gather the plates and go to set them on the table. The radio sits on the far edge, a staple in our household during the afternoons. We would always sit around and listen to the stories they would play, too poor for a television. Our father had spent months saving up for that radio and we worshipped it appropriately. On Sunday afternoons we would have the entire family over for lunch, myself and my cousins sitting around the radio and listening to whatever report or station we could find, our small glimpse into the outside world. Sundays were a day of stuffy heat, of flies which buzzed around our heads, the cries of birds outside the window. Pietro would be there, of course, not family but close enough to be considered it. I remember the smell of our sweaty skin, of grass clippings and the usual echoes of Summer. The echoes of long days and hot nights which refuse to fade from my skin.

Would you have ever gotten married? The concept almost makes me laugh. I cannot imagine you and stability in the same sentence. You tore through my life like a comet and blew apart any sense of normality I could have had. I like to imagine the two of us settling down, having a house beside the sea, listening to the radio on Sunday afternoons, your hand on my knee, our children at our feet. What a ridiculous notion. But still, I imagine it. Imaging is all I have left these days.

We sit down for lunch. My grandmother sits at the head of the table and continues her rant about this and that. The food is delicious, just as I remembered. For the first time in a while, I feel my stomach grumble, my appetite returning. I fill my plate to the brim and practically shovel the food into my mouth.

“Someone’s hungry,” comments Mirella.

“He’s gotten used to that awful city food,” says my grandmother. “Look at him. So skinny. No woman wants a skinny man like that. What you need is a good meal, none of that city junk. Out here in the country we cook properly, none of that processed rubbish.”

“Of course, Nonna,” I say, ignoring the jab about my weight. “I’ve definitely missed Mama’s cooking. I can’t do her recipes justice when I’m so busy at school.”

“I wish you would visit more,” says my mother, forlorn. I have to hold back a sigh and a roll of my eyes. It was only a matter of time before she would be onto me about my long absences. It comes up every time I visit. This may be a new record. Usually, she doesn’t start up until mid-way through the trip.

“You know I can’t come back often, Mama,” I reply patiently, holding back my frustration. “We’ve talked about this. I can’t afford it.”

“Don’t you know,” says my grandmother. “He’s embarrassed of us. That’s why he hasn’t brought any girls home. I bet he’s lying about that as well. I can tell these things. I knew when Mirella was hiding that young boy from us and look how that turned out!”

“Nonna, stop it,” says Mirella, gritting her teeth. Her hand clenches around her glass. In the background, the radio plays.

_A team of experts on the underground trading of human body parts…_

“… They don’t want to bring anyone back here. They’re ashamed of their heritage. Do you know that your grandfather worked seven days a week down at those docks to support us, and your father too? We lived through the worse depression this area has ever seen, you hear me? Leorio,” she turns on me, extending a crooked finger. “I want to see you settled down with a nice girl. And no lying about her, either! I can tell these things-“

_… Extremely rare Scarlet Eyes were found to have been stolen…_

“Stop, stop, stop!” I yell, slamming a hand on the table with a bang. “Everyone be quiet!”

“What on earth are you on about boy-“ my grandmother says, affronted.

“Just shut up!” I cry, jumping from my seat and racing over to the radio and turning up the volume.

_… the eyes are thought to have been stolen in the early hours of the morning. Authorities are investigating just how the suspect entered and exited the museum without being detected by the alarms or security guards. There has been no sign of anything suspicious in the security footage…_

“Leorio!” says my mother. “What’s gotten into you?”

Scarlet Eyes. Stolen. I missed the name of the museum. Flashes of a vial sitting on a table, two red eyes floating in their solution. Your eyes in the back of the car, chained hand extended, teeth bared as you yelled at Chrollo next to you. My hands on the steering wheel, telling you to calm down. Where were they stolen from? Where are the ones you collected? Why don’t I know the answers?

“Leorio!” A voice is echoing. It’s my sister. “What’s happening? Are you alright?”

“I-“ I clear my throat, blink away the visions, look around at the room, at the table, out the window. “I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

I sit back down, legs numb.

“What was that about?” asks my mother.

“Nothing,” I reply. My voice sounds so quiet, barely an exhale of air. I’m staring at my grandmother’s nails, at the red sauce on her plate. Red, like those lights which reflected in the glass in the bar you met me in. Red, like your eyes when we stood outside and inhaled the scents of the city and you told me ‘soon’. Red, like the blood on your skin when you came to visit, a string of rubies which hung around your neck. Red, like the flowers in the park where we sat. He loves me, he loves me not. Red, like the fireworks on New Year’s Eve, the last time I saw you before… before… I remember sitting with you on the hilltop, Gon and Killua chasing each other below, and thinking that I wanted you to stay with me forever. You said “wait for me” and I said yes, of course, I will always wait for you. I thought to myself: I hope you stay around forever. I want you in my life forever.

I still want you. I want you next to me, here, at this kitchen table, the sweat dripping down our backs, the buzz of flys outside the window and the horizon swimming in the distance. I want you here, listening to my grandmother’s stories, laughing nervously to my mother’s questions. I miss your laugh. I would give anything, everything, to hear that laugh again. I wish you were here. I don’t think I will ever stop wishing that.

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” I say, standing suddenly.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” asks my sister. She’s staring at me with wide, concerned eyes.

“Yes,” I reply. “I just need to get out for a bit… see the town again. You know… haven’t been back in so long…”

“Right now? We're halfway through lunch-“

I don’t wait for her to say anything more. I turn and walk out of the room, down the hallway and out the front door, into the heat of mid-afternoon. I need to get out, I need to breathe.

Scarlet Eyes. Stolen. A memory resurfaces. I’m standing on my balcony a few months after you turned up at my apartment, calling you like usual, looking out at the nighttime traffic and wondering where in the world you are, what you are doing. Except this time is different. This time you pick up the phone.

“Leorio!” you shout.

I jump, startled, not ready to hear your voice screaming at me in my ear.

“Kurapika. Hey, you picked up.”

“Leorio,” you continue, voice still too loud, the consonants slurring. “Leorio, Leorio.”

“Are you drunk?” I ask, bewildered. I’d never seen or heard you drunk in my life. For some strange reason, I’d never believed you could get drunk. You would immune to it, or something along those lines, because it clashed so heavily with your perfect composure and reproduced rage.

“No, no, no,” you say. “Not drunk. Have I been drinking? Maybe. I will not confirm or deny. But am I drunk? No.”

“Where are you right now?” I ask, worried that you were alone in some strange place in this state.

“In a car,” you clarify. “Don’t worry, Melody is here.” You gasp suddenly and for a moment I panic, thinking the car has crashed or something equally bad has happened. “Oh, Leorio! I remembered something. Eyes! I got another pair of eyes.”

“Did you?” I ask, exhaling. “How?”

“I stole them,” you answer proudly, like a child handing over their perfect report card.

“Really?” I say. “Are you okay now? Did you make sure no one could detect you or follow you?”

“Of course, Leorio,” you said. “I’m wearing my disguise. No one will know it was me.”

“That’s good…” I say. “And you just went out for a celebratory drink?”

“Didn’t want to…” you mumble. “Colleagues made me. And I was still dressed like this too! I had a lot of creepy men try and talk to me… I told them to get lost.”

Something stirs in my chest. A strange, ugly feeling. “If I was there, I would have fought them.”

You laugh. “I could have done that myself! But didn’t need to. I told them they could stick their phone numbers up their-“

“Alright,” a soft voice interrupts. Melody. “I think that’s enough. We’re almost here.”

“Stop it!” you cry. “I’m talking to Leorio. Mr Leorio.”

“It’s okay Kurapika,” I say, smiling to myself as I imagine the state you’re in, hair messy and eyeliner smudged. “You can go. I think you might be having a rough morning tomorrow.”

There was a rustle of clothing and the rush of air on the other side of the phone.

“He’s gone,” says Melody after a few moments. “He’s not going to be in a good mood tomorrow.”

“I bet,” I laugh softly. “Please look after him.” The 'for me' is implied, not uttered but understood all the same.

“Of course,” she answers. “Goodbye, Leorio. Have a good rest of your evening.”

Scarlet Eyes. Stolen. Visions of you with long hair flying behind you, a black skirt and shirt buttoned to your neck. I can almost see you running through dark alleys, a vial under your arm, black sunglasses slipping down your nose. I can imagine it so easily that it’s hard to believe that it’s not true, that you’re not out there somewhere tracking down the eyes in your disguises. I have to tell myself that this is all just fantasy, that you’re not still out there. It’s too dangerous to start believing in these things. It's too dangerous to begin to hope.

I walk down the street and past the places of my childhood. The heat radiates off the concrete, turning my surroundings into a simmering landscape of earthy tones. There is no one around, everyone inside for their midday meal. Even the children who usually populate the streets have retreated indoors. I walk past the butchers where I used to work as a teenager. I remember hours spent carving up slices of meat and practising knife tricks to impress the girls who would come in with their mothers wearing their pretty floral skirts and dresses, giving me soft smiles when I’d ask them about their day. I went out with a few girls during those years, now and again, but most of them failed to impress me. They were nice, but I was going for the wrong type. What I needed was someone more dangerous. _Quick-witted, sarcastic, determined, snappish and rude, scarily intelligence, could kick my ass and not bother apologising_. I had it all wrong, didn’t I?

I make my way down the steps which lead to the beach, the vast expanse of sparkling blue ocean expanding out before me in every direction, a sea of sapphire which shines under an equally vibrant sky. There is something about this town which I will never be able to describe. The birds which fly overhead, the sound of the crickets and the cicadas, the cigarette smoke which flows from where old men sit on their porches, watching the children kick their only ball up and down the dusty street. The way the sun burns into your skin, leaving it salty and crisp, the sweat shining off your shoulders and the heat glowing off your face long after sundown. No matter how hard I try I cannot escape the touch of this little town which sits next to the sea. I can spend months in the smog of the city but I always find my way back. I know someday- when I’m finished with university and I’ve mastered my Nen- I will journey through places like this. To these quiet spots where the people have little money but open hearts, willing to work hard to provide for their children. It’s a simple life, and I will help those sick people who want to go on living it.

I gradually venture down to the beach. Once I’m there I take a seat on the sand beneath the shade of a tree. Pietro and I loved this spot. I haven’t come back here for a long time. I sit and run my hand through the sand, thinking about Pietro, about you. Nothing specific, I just let the memories flood through me, one past the other, like I’m flicking through a photo album and glancing at what’s inside. I look out at the ocean and the waves which slowly roll in, taste the salt on my tongue, inhale the smell which encompasses the sea. The day swims around me like a hot dream. I wish I could have brought you to this spot. We would sit side by side like we did in the park. I’d let you lie your head on my lap, let you bathe in the shade. In this fantasy, you’re not dressed as yourself, but in your disguise. Long silver hair spills over my legs. You’re wearing a soft pink skirt which rides up on your thighs. I watch as your eyelashes flutter against your cheek, soft sunlight falling from between the overhead leaves and creating intricate patterns on your skin. I smile and lean down to kiss you, your soft lips pressing against my own as we both sigh into each other.

“Hey, get a room!” cries Pietro.

I break away and turn to look at him, laughing awkwardly. On my lap, you make a noise of complaint. Pietro’s covering his eyes, knees tucked up to his chest. He’s small, like I remember, round eyes filled with amusement.

“So, I’m not allowed to kiss my husband?” I retort. There's an excited cry in the distance and I turn to look out at the water. My mother and father are swimming in the ocean, my grandmother sitting on the sand and watching them. I watch as my father splashes my mother and she cries out, the two of them laughing as he picks her up and dumps her under the waves.

“Just reminding you that I’m still here,” says Pietro.

“I can’t help it,” I say, turning away to look down at you. “It’s not my fault he’s so damn irresistible.”

You grin, holding back your laugh. Pietro makes a disgusted noise. “Who knew marriage would turn you into such a sap!”

“Oh no,” you clarify. “He’s always been a hopeless romantic.”

“Oh yeah?” I retort. “Would you like to test that theory?”

Your eyes sparkle, gaze flickering to my lips. “Maybe I would.”

I hear Pietro cry a chorus of disgusted noises but it’s fading into the background as I lean forward to capture your mouth once more. Your hand finds my face, pulling me closer. You sigh against my mouth and I lick your bottom lip, tasting the sweetness of the fruit we ate after lunch, the fresh hint of the tea my grandmother served you as we sat side by side in the living room. Behind us, Pietro's voice fades away as he gives up and leaves us there. My hand finds your knee, sliding up your thigh and pushing up under your skirt, slowly, feeling the heat of your sun-baked skin. You gasp as my hand travels higher, your hand shifting to grasp the back of my neck. _Leorio,_ you murmur against my mouth.

_Leorio._

“…Hey, wake up!”

I jerk into awareness, flailing around on the sand. It takes me a moment to remember where I am and I let out a moan of frustration.

“No, no, no…” I turn and press my face into my hands, my glasses sticking into my skin as I try desperately to catch the remnants of the dream, the taste of your lips, the feeling of your skin, the sound of your soft breaths. Gone, gone, gone, evaporating into the light, disappearing up into the sky like a balloon with its string cut, up and up and out of sight. A dry sob escapes my throat as the dream rapidly fades away.

“Leorio? Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” I feel a hand on my back, rubbing slow circles up and down. It reminds me of what our mother used to do when we were children and we would come rushing inside after falling and scraping our knees on the hot concrete.

I take a deep breath and pull myself into a sitting position, rubbing the sand and sleep from my eyes. The afternoon has grown later, orange light making the sand glow. I can feel Mirella's concerned look burning the side of my face. “I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a dream,” I reply. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

"Alright,” she says. “You don’t have to. Are you okay, though? You left lunch in quiet a hurry before…”

“Sorry about that." My voice sounds hollow and robotic. "I hope Mama’s not too mad.” I stare at the sand, gaze unmoving.

“She’s not mad, Leorio,” Mirella tells me. “She’s worried. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

I sigh, removing my glasses and bringing my knees to my chest, burying my face in my arms. “It was just something on the radio it… reminded me of something. I’m alright now it’s just…” I take a deep breath. A breeze has picked up, rustling the leaves and pulling at my clothes. “I’m not doing so good, at the moment.”

The hand continues to rub circles into my back. I focus on the sensation, let it ground me, let it keep me from shattering, from melting into the sand.

“I can tell,” Mirella murmurs. “You weren’t acting like yourself this afternoon, but I thought you were just tired like you said….”

“It’s been like this for months,” I say, voice so soft I can barely hear it. “I’m scared it’s never going to go away.” It’s a confession I’ve never dared utter even to myself. I'm scared, terrified, that I will never be able to stop thinking about you, that I’ll never escape this prison I’ve been trapped in, that you’ve trapped me in. But I’m also just as scared of moving on, as if that would prove some falsity in my own feelings, in the moments we shared, that you were never that important to me at all and that it was all pointless and I was never truly in love.

“Oh, Leorio,” says my sister. “It will. Whatever is happening will end, I promise.”

“He wasn’t even mine,” I continue as if she hadn’t even spoken. “We weren’t even… anything and yet I feel so destroyed like I should be if we had been something, but we weren’t… we weren’t anything and he wasn’t even mine.”

I’m not making any sense, just rambling over and over into my arm. Mirella beside me continues to rub circles into my back and tells me it will be okay. She doesn’t comment on the use of “he”, doesn’t ask what I mean by _something_ , just whispers soft encouragements which mix with the slow rush of the waves and the soft breeze.

There is something about this town which I will never be able to describe. The smell of the country settles into my skin and refuses to leave it. I am trapped by you, ensnared by the chains which hang from your hand. It'll be alright, says Mirella, over and over, but will it be? No matter how hard I try I don't think I can believe her. I want to give in to the madness, into the fantasy. I want to feel the relief which comes with giving up. I imagine I'm walking into the ocean and lying beneath the waves. I imagine that I'm sinking down, down, down until I can no longer see the light of the sun or feel my body and all I can taste is salt and sand. I imagine it to feel like a comforting embrace. I imagine it to feel like coming home.


End file.
